Janet smiled in return, and Mrs. Fergusson, delighted to have the chance, broke out into praises of her Commandant.

“You see, we women who are doing all this new work with men, we know a jolly deal more about them than we ever did before.  I can tell you, it searches us out, this joint life—­both women and men.  In this camp you can’t hide what you are—­the sort of man—­or the sort of woman.  And there isn’t a woman in this camp, if she’s been here any time, who wouldn’t trust the Captain for all she’s worth—­who wouldn’t tell him her love-affairs, or her debts—­or march up to a machine-gun, if he told her.  In a sense, they’re in love with him, because—­as you’ve no doubt found out, he has a way with him!  But they all know that he’s never been anything to them but the best of Commandants, and a good friend.  Oh, I could never have run this camp but for him.  He and I’ll go together!  Of course we’re shutting up very soon.”

So the pleasant Irishwoman ran on, as she walked beside Janet and her bicycle to the top of the hill.  Janet listened and smiled.  Her own mind said ditto to it all.  But nevertheless, the more Ellesborough was set on a pinnacle by this enthusiastic friend and spectator of his daily life, the more Rachel’s friend trembled for Rachel.  A lover “not too bright and good” to understand—­and forgive—­that was what was wanted.

She reached the farm-gate about two o’clock, and Rachel was there, waiting for her.  But before they met, Rachel watching her approach, saw that there was no news for her.

“He wasn’t there?” she said, drearily, as Janet reached her.

Janet explained, and they walked up the farm lane together.

“I would have waited if I could,” she said in distress.  “But it would have looked strange.  Mrs. Fergusson would have suspected something wrong.”

“Oh no, you couldn’t have waited,” said Rachel, decidedly.  “Well!”—­she threw her arms out in a great stretch—­“it’s done.  In half an hour he’ll be reading the letter.  It’s like waiting for one’s execution, isn’t it?  Nothing can stop it; I may be dead before tea!” She gave a wild laugh.

“Rachel!”

“Well, that’s how I feel.  If he gives me up, it will be death—­though I dare say I shall go on fussing round the farm, and people will still talk to me as if I were alive.  But!”—­she shrugged her shoulders.

“He won’t give you up—­” said Janet, much troubled—­“because—­because he’s a good man.”

“All the more reason.  If I were he, I should give me up.  Shall I tell you a queer thing, Janet?  I hate Roger, as much as I can hate anybody.  It would be a great relief to me if I heard he were dead.  And yet at the same time I see—­oh yes, I see quite plainly—­that I treated him badly.  He told me so the other night—­and it is so—­it’s true.  I never had the least patience with him.  And now he’s dying—­at least he says so—­and though I hate him—­though I pray I may never, never see him again, yet I’m sorry for him.  Isn’t that strange?”