And now it was the last adventure of their last day. They were walking on the slope of Renton Moor that looks over Rathdale towards Greffington Edge. The light from the west poured itself in vivid green down the valley below them, broke itself into purple on Karva Hill to the north above Morfe, and was beaten back in subtle blue and violet from the stone rampart of the Edge.
Nicholas had been developing, in fancy, the strategic resources of the country. Guns on Renton Moor, guns along Greffington Edge, on Sarrack Moor. The raking lines of the hills were straight as if they had been measured with a ruler and then planed.
"Ronny," he said at last, "we've licked 'em in the first round, you and I. The beastly Boche can't do us out of these three days."
"No. We've been absolutely happy. And we'll never forget it. Never."
"Perhaps it was a bit rough on Dad and Mummy, our carting ourselves up here, away from them. But, you see, they don't really mind. They're feeling about it now just as we feel about it. I knew they would."
There had been a letter from Frances saying she was glad they'd gone. She was so happy thinking how happy they were.
"They're angels, Nicky."
"Aren't they? Simply angels. That's the rotten part of it. I wish--
"I wish I could tell them what I think of them. But you can't, somehow. It sticks in your throat, that sort of thing."