"We might as well finish the love story we have begun, if you really insist on following through to the conventional end."
"Yes," he said. "I do insist. Let us follow through together—to the end."
Philippa, slim and white, moved silently through the house beside Warner, out across the terrace and down to the drive.
The last hint of color had died out in the west. Below, in the valley, no searchlights flooded the river; only a moving lantern here and there glimmered through the misty dusk.
"It will be jolly," he was saying, "for us to dine again together before Halkett leaves. Don't you think so, Philippa?"
"Yes. When is he going?"
"Tomorrow, I believe. They are sending the wrecked machine to Verdun by rail. I suppose he'll follow in the morning. What a miracle that he was not killed! They say the big Bristol behaved exactly like a wing-tipped grouse when the shrapnel hit her—coming down beating and fluttering and fighting for equilibrium to the end. It was the skill of his pilot that brought her safely wabbling and planing into the river, where she waddled about like a scotched duck."
"Was the pilot badly hurt?"
"Not badly. Sister Eila is looking after him. They're going to bring him up to the Château hospital in the morning. He's at the inn now."
"Why didn't they bring any wounded to us, Jim?"