Nelly sat bare-headed, her elbows on her knees, and her face propped in her hands.  She was in white, with a white shawl round her, and the grace of the slight form and dark head stirred anew in Sarratt that astonished and exquisite sense of possession which had been one of the main elements of consciousness, during their honeymoon.  Of late indeed it had been increasingly met and wrestled with by something harsher and sterner; by the instinct of the soldier, of the fighting man, foreseeing a danger to his own will, a weakening of the fibre on which his effort and his power depend.  There were moments when passionately as he loved her, he was glad to be going; secretly glad that the days which were in truth a greater test of endurance than the trenches were coming to an end.  He must be able to trust himself and his own nerve to the utmost.  Away from her, love would be only a strengthening power; here beside her, soul and sense contended.

A low voice came out of the shadow.

‘George—­I’m not going with you to the station.’

‘Best not, dearest—­much best.’

A silence.  Then the voice spoke again.

‘How long will it take you, George, getting to the front?’

’About twenty-four hours from the base, perhaps more.  It’s a weary business.’

‘Will you be in action at once?’

‘I think so.  That part of the line’s very short of men.’

‘When shall I hear?’

He laughed.

’By every possible post, I should think, darling.  You’ve given me post-cards enough.’

And he tapped his breast-pocket, where lay the little writing-case she had furnished for every imaginable need.

‘George!’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘When you’re tired, you’re—­you’re not to write.’

He put out his long arms, and took her hands in his.

‘I shan’t be tired—­and I shall write.’

She looked down upon the hands holding hers.  In each of the little fingers there was a small amusing deformity—­a slight crook or twist—­which, as is the way of lovers, was especially dear to her.  She remembered once, before they were engaged, flaming out at Bridget, who had made mock of it.  She stooped now, and kissed the fingers.  Then she bowed her forehead upon them.

’George!’—­he could only just hear her—­’I know Miss Martin will be kind to me—­and I shall find plenty to do.  You’re never to worry about me.’

‘I won’t—­so long as you write to me—­every day.’

There was again a silence.  Then she lifted her head, and as the boat swung out of the shadow, the moonlight caught her face.

’You’ll take that Wordsworth I gave you, won’t you, George?  It’ll remind you—­of this.’  Her gesture showed the lake and the mountains.

’Of course, I shall take it.  I shall read it whenever I can—­perhaps more for your sake—­than Wordsworth’s.’

‘It’ll make us remember the same things,’ she murmured.