And then the lazy eyes closed in their last weariness, the impudent lips parted, and Penny was dead. The War had beaten him. It was too big a circumstance for him to tame.
§6
The night we heard of it, Doe threw himself into a chair and said:
"I'm miserable to-night, Rupert."
"So'm I," said I, looking out of the window over a moonlit sea. "Poor old Penny. I don't know why it makes one feel a cur, but it does, doesn't it?"
"Surely," answered Doe.
For a time we smoked our pipes in silence. I gazed at the long silver pathway that the light of the moon had laid on the sea. Right on the horizon, where the pathway met the sky, a boat with a tall sail stood black against the light. Fancifully I imagined that its dark shape resembled the outline of a man—say, perhaps, the figure of Destiny—walking down the sparkling pathway towards us. I was in the mood to fancy such things. Then Doe from his chair said:
"Old Penny always took the lead with us, didn't he? He's taken it again."
"I don't see what you mean," answered I.
"Oh, it doesn't matter what I mean. I'm depressed to-night."