go down the steep path to the shore, and we will stand where the sand is wet, and look up to where our drowned House used to be.  And there shall be no facts any more, only the ghosts, and the dreams.  Oh, surely it has never happened before—­this meeting of Secret Friends—­and surely no friend ever loved her friend as I love you, and surely there never was so little room for sin and disappointment in any love as there is in ours.  Surely there are no tears in the world any more, and no Brown Borough, and no War.  I don’t care if I go hungry every day till we meet, I don’t care if I have nothing but hated clothes to wear in my Secret World.  I don’t care if there are six changes on the journey to the sea, and at every change I miss my connection.  I don’t care if the end lasts only a minute, because the minute will last for ever, there are no facts any more.  Because of you the little bothers of the world are gone, and the big bothers never did exist, because of you.  Oh, I can say what I mean at last, and if it’s nonsense—­I don’t care, because of you....”

Presently she said, “And now I wonder if I am very proud or very much ashamed of having spoken.”

“You said once,” Mr. Russell reminded her, “that life was just a bead upon a string.  Well, does it much matter whether one bead is the colour of pride or the colour of shame?  Does one successful bead more or less matter, my dear?  I think it’s all a succession of explanations, more or less lucid, and all different and all confusing.  A string of beads more or less beautiful, and all unvalued.  We don’t know that any of the explanations are true, we don’t know that any of the beads have any worth.  We only know that they are ours....”

“I don’t care if I trample my beads in the mud,” said Jay.  “Now let’s go home and think.”

When she and Chloris got home that evening to Eighteen Mabel Place, Chloris barked at a man who was waiting outside the door.  He was a young man in khaki, with one star; he looked very white, and was reading something from his pocket-book.

“Great Scott, Bill,” said Jay.  “I thought you were busy sapping in France.  Were you anywhere near Kew?”

I do not know if you will remember the name of young William Morgan.  I think I have only mentioned him once or twice.

“I got back on leave two hours ago,” said Mr. Morgan.  “I have been waiting here thirty-two minutes.  I saw Kew every day last week, and I was with him when he died, three hours before I came away yesterday.”

Jay was silent.  She opened the door, and in the sitting-room she placed—­very carefully—­two chairs looking at each other across the table.

“Jay,” said William Morgan, “I am deadly afraid of doing this badly.  Kew and I talked a good deal before it happened, and there was a good deal he wanted me to tell you.  All the way back in the train and on the boat I have been writing notes to remind me what I had to say to you.  I hope you don’t mind.  I hope you don’t think it callous.”