“You are not going to become a missionary?” I said.

“No, but with the consent of the Bishop, who, I think, believes that my locum got on better in the parish than I do, as no doubt was the case, I, too, have volunteered for the Front, and been accepted as a chaplain of the 201st Division.”

“Why, that’s mine!” said Bickley.

“Is it?  I am very glad, since now we shall be able to pursue our pleasant arguments and to do our best to open each other’s minds.”

“You fellows are more fortunate than I am,” I remarked.  “I also volunteered, but they wouldn’t take me, even as a Tommy, although I misstated my age.  They told me, or at least a specialist whom I saw did afterwards, that the blow I got on the head from that sorcerer’s boy—­”

“I know, I know!” broke in Bickley almost roughly.  “Of course, things might go wrong at any time.  But with care you may live to old age.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” I said with a sigh, “at least I think I am.  Meanwhile, fortunately there is much that I can do at home; indeed a course of action has been suggested to me by an old friend who is now in authority.”

Once more Bickley and Bastin in their war-stained uniforms were dining at my table and on the very night of their return from the Front, which was unexpected.  Indeed Tommy nearly died of joy on hearing their voices in the hall.  They, who played a worthy part in the great struggle, had much to tell me, and naturally their more recent experiences had overlaid to some extent those which we shared in the mysterious island of Orofena.  Indeed we did not speak of these until, just as they were going away, Bastin paused beneath a very beautiful portrait of my late wife, the work of an artist famous for his power of bringing out the inner character, or what some might call the soul, of the sitter.  He stared at it for a while in his short-sighted way, then said:  “Do you know, Arbuthnot, it has sometimes occurred to me, and never more than at this moment, that although they were different in height and so on, there was a really curious physical resemblance between your late wife and the Lady Yva.”

“Yes,” I answered.  “I think so too.”

Bickley also examined the portrait very carefully, and as he did so I saw him start.  Then he turned away, saying nothing.

Such is the summary of all that has been important in my life.  It is, I admit, an odd story and one which suggests problems that I cannot solve.  Bastin deals with such things by that acceptance which is the privilege and hall-mark of faith; Bickley disposes, or used to dispose, of them by a blank denial which carries no conviction, and least of all to himself.

What is life to most of us who, like Bickley, think ourselves learned?  A round, short but still with time and to spare wherein to be dull and lonesome; a fateful treadmill to which we were condemned we know not how, but apparently through the casual passions of those who went before us and are now forgotten, causing us, as the Bible says, to be born in sin; up which we walk wearily we know not why, seeming never to make progress; off which we fall outworn we know not when or whither.