"In any way I can."
"I knew you would. That's why I asked you to write the memoir. It will be something for Sandy to live up to. I want you to put in everything. Jim was never mean, but any weaknesses you think he had—or prejudices—or silly things he did—I want them all in.... George, I wonder what kind of world Sandy's will be?"
"Of Jim's friends only Raney and I are left," I said.
"And poor Raney...." She left the sentence unfinished.
"Why pity him?" I asked.
"I can't help it, George."
"Isn't he rather—big to pity?" I suggested. "Pity him by all means if we get no new inspiration out of this war. If there's to be nothing but a wrangle over frontiers, the discussion of an indemnity, a free fight for stray colonies, a fifty years' peace, even—it wasn't worth sacrificing a single life for that. We've reached the twentieth century without finding a faith to inspire it. Some one has still to preach a modern doctrine of humanity."
The following night I went down to Melton for the week's holiday that the Admiralty was giving me. It was the eve of Speech Day, and my train was filled with unmistakable parents. Sonia met me at the station and we drove up to the school together. Perfect contentment shone in her brown eyes.
"I was sorry I couldn't get to the wedding," I said, "but nowadays one is hardly master of one's own time. Burgess married you, didn't he?"
She nodded. "In Chapel. And Mr. Morris was best man. He got ninety-six hours' leave for it. George, I'm jealous of him and I know he hates me, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. We did the whole thing as furtively as we could—only ourselves and mother and the witnesses. It was supposed to be a deadly secret, but when we came out the Corps was forming a guard of honour down to the Cloisters, and old Lord Pebbleridge turned out the hounds in Little End. It was all that little cousin of yours—including the presentation.... George, they simply worship David here."