o God _I_ were a man."

Thompson rose to his feet. The lash of her tongue had not lost its power
to sting since those far-off Lone Moose days. Yet, though it stabbed
like a spear, he was more conscious of a passionate craving to gather
her into his arms than of anger and resentment. There were tears in
Sophie's eyes--but there was no softness in her tone. Her red lips
curled as Thompson looked at her in dazed silence. There did not seem to
be anything he could say--not with Sophie looking at him like that.

"If you feel that way about it--"

He broke off in the middle of the muttered sentence, turned on his heel,
walked out of the room. And he went down the street suffering from a
species of shock, saying desperately to himself that it did not matter,
nothing mattered.

But he knew that was a lie, a lie he told himself to keep his soul from
growing sick.

He went back to his rooms for the last time, and tried with pen and
paper to set down some justification of himself for Sophie's eyes. But
he could not satisfy himself with that. His pride revolted against it.
Why should he plead? Or rather, what was the use of pleading? Why
should he explain? He had a case for the defence, but defence avails
nothing after sentence has been pronounced. He had waited too long. He
had been tried and found wanting.

He tore the letter into strips, and having sent his things to the
station long before, put on his hat now and walked slowly there himself,
for it lacked but an hour of train-time.

At the corner of Pender and Hastings he met Sam Carr.

"Welcome, youthful stranger," Carr greeted heartily. "I haven't seen you
for a long time. Walk down to the Strand with me and have a drink. I've
been looking over the Vancouver Construction Company's yard, and it's a
very dry place."

Thompson assented. He had time and it was on his way. He reacted
willingly to the suggestion. He needed something to revive his spirit,
but he had not thought of the stimulus of John Barleycorn until Carr
spoke.

In the Strand bar he poured himself half a glass of Scotch whisky. Carr
regarded him meditatively over port wine.

"That's the first time I ever saw you touch the hard stuff," he
observed.

"It will probably be the last," Thompson replied.

"Why?"

"I'm off," Thompson explained. "I have sold out my business and have
been accepted for the Royal Flying Corps. I'm taking the train at six to
report at Eastern headquarters."

Carr fingered