Radley seemed strained, as though he had something ominous to break, and said with a dull and meaning laugh:  “I’m sure I hope you have one too.”

Observing that he was in one of his harder moods, I at once became awkwardly dumb; and there was a difficult silence, till he asked: 

“Have you heard about Herr Reinhardt?”

“Mr. Caesar?  No, sir.”

“Well, he left to-day for Germany.”

“What on earth for?”

“Why, to shoulder a rifle, of course, and fight in the German ranks.  Don’t you know Germany is mobilising and will be at war with France in about thirty hours?”

“Oh, I read something about it.  But what fun!”

Radley looked irritated.  In trying to break some strange news he had walked up a blind alley and been met by my blank wall of density.  So he took another path.

“Pennybet is in luck, according to his ideas.  All Europe plays into his hands.  He’s got the war he wanted to give him rapid promotion.”

“Why, sir, how will Germany affect him?”

“Only in this way,” Radley announced, desperately trying to get through my blank wall by exploding a surprise, “that England will be at war with Germany in about three days.”

“Oh, what fun!  We’ll give ’em no end of a thrashing.  I hate Germans.  Excepting Herr Reinhardt.  I hope he has a decent time.”

“And White and Lancaster, and all who leave this term, and perhaps even—­perhaps others will get commissions at once.”

“Why, sir?  They’re not going to Sandhurst.”

“No,” sighed Radley, “but they give commissions to all old public-schoolboys, if there’s a big war.  White and Lancaster will be in the fight before many months.”

“Lucky beggars!”

It was this fatuous remark which showed Radley that I had no idea of my own relation to the coming conflict.  So he forbore to spring upon me the greatest surprise of all.  He just said with a sadness and a strange emphasis: 

“Well, good-bye, and the best of luck.  Make the most of your holiday.  There are great times in front of you.”

All the while he said it, he held my hand in a demonstrative way, very unlike the normal Radley.  Then he dropped it abruptly and turned away.  And I went exuberantly out—­so exuberantly that I left my hat upon his table, and was obliged to hasten back for it.  When I entered the room again, he was staring out of the window over the empty cricket fields.  Though he heard me come, he never once turned round, as I picked up my hat and went out through the door.

And because of that I dared to wonder whether his grey eyes, where the gentleness lay, were not inquiring of the deserted fields:  “Have I allowed myself to grow too fond?” He seemed as if braced for suffering.

Farewell, Radley, farewell.  After all, does it matter to a strong swimmer if the wave beats against him?

       Now Thames is long and winds its changing way
        Through wooded reach to dusky ports and gray,
        Till, wearily, it strikes the Flats of Leigh,
        An old life, tidal with Eternity.