"Yes," I promised him. "I shall not go to it and your father will not, and Clare will not. And there's no one else."
I was tenderly wrapping up his sword in folds of silk as I spoke; his sword, that had been used for show and was not wanted for the hard and bitter work of fighting in earnest.
He went on talking as he went on packing in things on the top of the letters:
"I've told Vera Brennan that you won't mind her writing to you sometimes. You won't, will you?"
"No. Of course I shan't mind. I shall be glad."
I felt suddenly grateful to fate for the other woman who loved him, too.
He finished his packing and we went into the dining-room for tea.
"I shan't be able to stay all through tea. I've got to leave in ten minutes, to catch the train back to Norwich and clear out of my rooms there, so as to go to the Melchesters at Maldon. I shall feel a stranger among them, and no mistake. But I like the colonel, and that's something."
He spoke quite bravely and with an attempt at his usual gaiety, but it was easy to see that there was something not quite right about him. Eagerly though he had striven to go, he yet was not going without a pang.
But it was not the coward's pang—Heaven be thanked! There was nothing of fear in it.