Henslowe was on his feet, striding nervously about the room.
“As if anyone was ever free,” he muttered.
“All right, quibble, quibble. You can argue anything away if you want to. Of course, cowardice is the best policy, necessary for survival. The man who's got most will to live is the most cowardly... go on.” Andrews's voice was shrill and excited, breaking occasionally like a half-grown boy's voice.
“Andy, what on earth's got hold of you?... God, I hate to go away this way,” added Henslowe after a pause.
“I'll pull through all right, Henny. I'll probably come to see you in Syria, disguised as an Arab sheik.” Andrews laughed excitedly.
“If I thought I'd do any good, I'd stay.... But there's nothing I can do. Everybody's got to settle their own affairs, in their own damn fool way. So long, Walters.”
Walters and Henslowe shook hands absently.
Henslowe came over to the bed and held out his hand to Andrews.
“Look, old man, you will be as careful as you can, won't you? And write me care American Red Cross, Jerusalem. I'll be damned anxious, honestly.”
“Don't you worry, we'll go travelling together yet,” said Andrews, sitting up and taking Henslowe's hand.