“I’m sorry about the money, Pat. But we’ll make another fortune when the war’s over.”
“Of course, dear.” Oh, but this was Hell—Hell unutterable.
“And, Pat”—-he caught her hand, drew her towards him—“we’ve been jolly good pals, haven’t we?”
“Yes, dear,” she whispered, resting for a second in his arms.
“You ought to be in bed, you know, Pat. It’s very late.”
“Ought I?”
“Yes.” He bent down; kissed her, quietly, tenderly, on the forehead, then on the lips. She steeled herself to give no cry.
“Good-bye,” she whispered. “And, boy, boy, for Heaven’s sake take care of yourself.”
“Trust me!” said our Mr. Jameson. . . .
And so they parted.