Of course he must write a letter of thanks to Mrs. Clarke.

One day, after he had written to Rosamund, to Robin, to his mother, to Beattie and to Bruce Evelin, Mrs. Clarke’s turn came.  His letter to her was short and cheery, but he was slow in writing it.  There was a noise of men, a turmoil of activity all about him.  In the midst of it he heard a husky, very individual voice, he saw a pair of wide-open distressed eyes looking directly at him.  And an odd conviction came to him that life would bring Mrs. Clarke and him together again.  Then he would come back from South Africa?  He had no premonition about that.  What he felt as he wrote his letter was simply that somehow, somewhere, Mrs. Clarke and he would get to know each other better than they knew each other now.  Kismet!  In the vast Turkish cemeteries there were moldering bodies innumerable.  Why did he think of them whenever he thought of Mrs. Clarke?  No doubt because she lived in Constantinople, because much of her life was passed in the shadow of the towering cypresses.  He had thought of her as a cypress.  Did she keep watch over bodies of the dead?

A bugle rang out.  He put his letter into the envelope and hastily scribbled the address.  Mrs. Clarke was again at Claridge’s.

* * * * *

Every man who loves very deeply wishes to conquer the woman he loves, to conquer the heart of her and to have it as his possession.  Dion had left England knowing that he had won Rosamund but had never conquered her.  This South African campaign had come upon him like a great blow delivered with intention; a blow which does not stun a man but which wakes the whole man up.  If this war had not broken out his life would have gone on as before, harmoniously, comfortably, with the daily work, and the daily exercise, and the daily intercourse with wife and child and friends.  And would he ever have absolutely known what he knew now, what—­he was certain of it!—­his mother knew, what perhaps Beattie and even Bruce Evelin knew?

He had surely failed in a great enterprise, but he was resolved to succeed if long enough life were given to him.  He was now awake and walked in full knowledge.  Surely, Rosamund being what she was, the issue lay with himself.  If God had stood between them that must be because he, Dion, was not yet worthy of the full happiness which was his greatest earthly desire.  Dion was certain that God did not stand between Rosamund and Robin.

He had dreams of returning to England a different, or perhaps a developed, man.  The perfect lovers ought to stand together on the same level.  Rosamund and he had never done that yet.  He resolved to gain in South Africa, to get a grip on his best possibilities, to go back to England, if he ever went back, a bigger soul, freer, more competent, more generous, more fearless.  He could never be a mystic.  He did not want to be that.  But surely he could learn in this interval of separation which, like a river, divided his life