“If I don’t hear from you at least once a month,” she told him, “I’ll abandon my blinded men to rescue you from Bolshevists!”
“Then I’ll never write till you come!” he said.
They talked, mostly nonsense, until he rose to say good-bye.
“There’s a chance,” said Bertram, “that I mayn’t see you again.”
“Good Lord!” she cried, in sham alarm. “Are you going to make another war?”
“No, but there’s the usual risk from one street to another. A falling chimney-pot, a typhus bug, or some other way of accident. Anyhow, I want to tell you now that I’m eternally grateful for all you’ve done for me, in lovingkindness. Wherever I am in the world, or beyond it, I’ll never forget my dear comrade.”
She let him take her hands and put them to his lips, when she answered him.
“Sir Faithful, I’m not good at serious speech, and don’t much believe in it, except at odd times, as a concession to human weakness. But I’ve liked your company, sir, and I’m sorry we can’t be closer partners—because of fate and other things.”
“Perhaps one day—” he said, and didn’t end his sentence.
She shook her head, as though understanding his unfinished words.