“He lies, then.  But you’ll take his word against mine.”

“Yes,” she said simply.  “And he says he didn’t tell you I was going on with him.  You don’t care for me.  If you’d cared you couldn’t have left me.”

“I thought you said if it was a toss up between you and a wounded man—?  There were wounded men in that car.”

“There was a wounded man with me.  You left him....  Don’t imagine I cared about myself, whether I lived or died.  It was because I cared about you.  I cared so awfully.”

He jerked out a laugh.  One light, short sound of dismissal and contempt.

XV

That light sound he made had ended it.

She remembered it afterwards, not as a thing that hurt her, but as an unpleasant incident of the day, like the rudeness of a stranger, and yet not to be forgotten.  It had the importance of extreme finality; his answer to everything, unanswerable.

She didn’t care.  She had ended it herself and with so clean a cut that she could afford to let him have that inarticulate last word.  She had left him nothing to do but keep up his pretence that there had never been so much as a beginning.  He gave no sign of anything having been between them, unless his attitude to Sutton was a sign.

It showed the next day, the terrible Sunday that was ending everything.  Yesterday he had given orders that Charlotte should drive Sutton while he drove by himself.  To-day he had changed all that.  Gwinnie was to drive Sutton and Charlotte was to go out alone.  And he had offered himself to McClane.  To McClane.  That gave her the measure of his resentment.  She could see that he coupled her with Sutton while he yet tried to keep them apart.  He was not going to have more to do with either of them than he could help.

So that she had hardly seen or heard of him that day.  And when the solid work began she found that she could turn him out of her mind as if he had never been there.  The intolerable burden of him slipped from her; all morning she had a sense of cold clearness and lightness; and she judged that her deliverance was complete.

* * * * *

She had waited a long time with her car drawn up close under the house wall in the long street at Melle.  McClane’s car stood in front of her, waiting for John.  He was up there on the battlefield, with Sutton and McClane.  McClane had kept him off it all day; he had come to her when they started and told her not to worry.  Conway would be all right.  He would see that he didn’t get into places where he—­well, unsuitable places.  He would keep him driving.  But in the end one of the stretcher bearers had given in, and John had to take his turn.

He had been keen to go.  Keen.  She could see him swinging along up the road to the battlefield and McClane with him, running to keep up with his tall stride.