Before the little coffin was closed, Bertram carried it into Joyce’s room, according to a wish she had whispered to the nurse. It was like a toy coffin with a doll inside. Joyce’s eyes filled with tears but she turned her head away and did not speak a word.
“My dear! My dear!” said Bertram. Although he had walked with death so long he was distressed beyond all words by this little corpse. His own name on the coffin startled him when he first saw it. It seemed symbolical of something that had died in himself, his spirit of youth; his hope.
“If I were you, I’d get about a bit and see your friends,” said the nurse, as they sat together in the carriage with the coffin on Bertram’s knee.
She was a nice human soul, who had been a nurse in the War and had learnt pity for men.
“Most of my real pals are killed,” said Bertram.
The nurse laughed, not heartlessly but to cheer him up.
“See those who are still alive. It’s no use brooding. Carry on!”
It was the old rallying word of the War. It had some effect on Bertram even now. He straightened up.
“I wish I could get a job, nurse!”
“We want another nice little war,” she answered.