“He will, sir,” Traherne laughed.
“By God, he shall,” Colonel Agnew said.
And a few days later Traherne and Crespin went off after game.
Sometimes Traherne thought he was winning, or, as he put it, that Crespin was. At others he thought he was losing.
Crespin came back to his regiment, and back to old failures and stumbles sometimes. But neither man ever quite gave it up. Colonel Agnew looked the other way more than once. He grumbled and threatened a great deal. And he prayed—but that he kept strictly to himself.
Lucilla Crespin grew whiter and colder. Iris and Ronald grew bonnier and chubbier—and their mother loved them more and more, gay and tender always with them, their beloved saint and tireless playmate. And Traherne, as he watched her with them, had almost more in his heart, and his strong tingling man’s blood, than his resolve and endurance could match. But they held. He often wondered if Mrs. Crespin knew what he felt—guessed it at all, any of it—but the woman, if she did, gave no sign.
Crespin recovered and lapsed—lapsed and recovered. And the regiment, watching, wondered how long the “old man” was going to put up with it—and so did the entire station.
And the Colonel wondered himself, and told Dr. Traherne so, more than once. And always the physician pleaded, “A little longer, sir!”
“How is it going to end?” Agnew demanded one day.