He was strangely silent as we sat facing each other in the compartment, each of us conscious of a hundred things to say, and saying none of them. The train might start at any moment, and such things as we did say were trivial irrelevancies. Suddenly he pulled out a pocket-book, and showed me a photograph.
"My wife and Pat—you've never seen Pat, I think? We christened her Patricia, you know?"
It was the photograph of a laughing child, with an aureole of curls, aged, I should say, about two.
"Pat sent me this," the Major said, producing a large woollen comforter. She had sent it for Daddy to wear during the cold nights with the Field Ambulance. I handed back the photograph, and B—— studied it intently for some minutes before replacing it in his pocket-book. Suddenly he leaned forward in a rather shamefaced way. "I say, old chap, write to my wife!"
"But, my dear fellow, I've never met her except once. She must have quite forgotten who I am."
"I know. But write and tell her you saw me off, and that I was at the top of my form. Merry and bright, you know."
We looked at each other for a moment; and I promised.
There was the loud hoot of a horn and a lurch of the couplings, as C—— sprang in. I grasped B——'s hand, and jumped on to the footboard of the moving train.
"Good-bye, old chap."
"Good-bye, old man."