"It is," he answered. "It's easy out there."
"Your mind is made up?"
"Absolutely." He gave a short laugh. "Good-bye, old friend. Ease it to her as well as you can. Say I'm unstrung by the trenches, anything you like; but don't let her guess the truth."
For a long minute he held my hand. Then he turned away. He walked to the mantelpiece, and there was a photograph of her there. For a long time he looked at it, and it seemed to me he whispered something. A sudden dimness blinded my eyes, and when I looked again he had gone—through the window into the night.
I did not see Pat until I left Drayton Hall after that ghastly night, save only once or twice with her mother in the room.
But an hour before I left she came to me, and her face was that of a woman who has passed through the fires.
"Tell me, Winkle, shall I ever see him again? You know what I mean."
"You will never see him again, Pat," and the look in her eyes made me choke.
"Will you tell me what it was he told you before he went through the window? You see, I was in the hall waiting for him," and she smiled wearily.