by him—­no, under him—­all that fearful time, and breaking his word to Lucille—­cheating and deceiving Lucille.  Then why couldn’t they say something instead of sitting there in their endless millions, mile after billions of miles, post after billions of trillions of posts—­menacing, watchful, silent, silent as the awful desert, silent as the SNAKE....  This would not do ... he must think hard of Lucille, of the Sword, of his Dream, his Dream that came so seldom now.  He would repeat Lucille’s last letter, word for word:—­

  “MY DARLING,

“It is over, thank God—­Oh, thank God—­and you can leave the army at once and become a ‘gentleman’ in position as well as in fact.  Poor old Grumper died on Saturday (as I cabled) and before he died he became quite another man—­weak, gentle and anxious to make any amends he could to anybody.  For nearly a week he was like this, and it was a most wonderful and pathetic thing.  He spent most of the time in telling me, General Harringport, Auntie Yvette or the Vicar, about wicked things he had done, cruelties, meannesses, follies—­it was most distressing, for really he has been simply a strong character with all the faults of one—­including, as we know too well, lack of sympathy, hardness, and sometimes savage cruelty, which, after all, was only the natural result of the lack of sympathy and understanding.

“As he grew weaker he grew more sympathetic with illness and suffering, I suppose, for he sent for me in the middle of the night to say that he had suddenly remembered Major Decies’ story about your probably being subject to fits and seizures in certain circumstances, and that he was coming to the conclusion that he had been hasty and unjust and had unmercifully punished you for no fault whatever.  He said ’I have punished him for being punished.  I have added my injustice to that of Fate.  Write to him that I ask his pardon and confess my fault.  Tell him I’ll make such reparation as I can,’ and oh, Dam—­he leaves you Monksmead, and me his money, on the understanding that we marry as soon as any physician, now living in Harley Street, says that you are fit to marry (I must write it I suppose) without fear of our children being epileptic, insane, or in any way tainted.  If none of them will do this, I am to inherit Monksmead and part of the money and you are to have a part of the money.  If we marry then, we lose everything and it goes to Haddon Berners.  Mr. Wyllis, who has been his lawyer and agent for thirty years, is to take you to Harley Street (presumably to prevent your bribing and corrupting the whole of the profession there residing).

“Come at once, Darling.  If the silly old physicians won’t certify, why—­what does it matter?  I am going to let lodgings at Monksmead to a Respectable Single Man (with board) and Auntie Yvette will see that he behaves himself.

“Cable what boat you start by and