Dick Bracknell’s jealous passion died down as suddenly as it had flamed. He threw himself back in the bunk and laughed shakily.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, “but it is one of the things that can’t be done.”
“You could let her divorce you!” blurted out the corporal. “It would be the decent thing to do.”
“When did I ever do the decent thing,” retorted his cousin sneeringly. “No, Joy’s my wife—and I’ll keep her. It is something to know that there are millions I can dip my hands in some day, and a warm breast I can flee to—”
“Not now at any rate,” broke in the corporal sharply, only by an effort restraining himself. “Joy has started for England.”
“For England—when?” Dick Bracknell’s face and tones expressed amazement, but his next words were burdened with suspicion. “You’re not lying to me?”
“No, it is the truth. Joy started for England yesterday morning. I saw her start.”
“And I can’t follow,” commented the prodigal bitterly. “That’s part of the price I pay.”
He did not speak again for a long time, and the corporal charged his pipe, lit it, and sat smoking, staring into the stove, and reflecting on the mess his cousin had made of his life.