“I’m your brother, and the same old pal,” said Bertram. “I want to help you, little sister.”
She put her hand on his arm.
“Help me by leaving me. Don’t you understand? I’ve been through Hell’s torture.”
She turned away from him, down a side street, with Betty and the other girl, and he did not follow her, because he understood.
That morning in the Shelbourne Hotel, he was called up on the telephone by Colonel Lavington.
“Is that Major Pollard? Oh, good morning.”
There was a moment’s silence, some hesitation on the telephone. Then the Colonel spoke again.
“I’m sorry to report bad news. Your brother Digby was killed last night. A sniper’s bullet on the outskirts of Dublin. A splendid young man. Most regrettable.”
Most regrettable! It was the old phrase used in the Great War when youth was killed. “I regret to report the loss of your gallant son—”
How was Bertram to face his mother with the news? How was he going to balance the tragedy of Dennis O’Brien with the tragedy of Digby Pollard? How was he going to get any sane judgment about this frightful orgy of death and outrage, hangings and shootings, prayers and curses and bleeding hearts?