ut you've got to get there. Oh,
Lord, how it brings the war home, doesn't it? Jump up!"

Peter sighed. "Blast the war!" he said lazily. "I shan't move. Kiss me
again, you darling, and let your hair fall over my face."

She did so, and its glossy curtain hid them. Beneath the veil she
whispered; "Come, darling, for my sake. The longer you stay here now,
the harder it will be."

He threw his arms round her, and then jumped out of bed yawning.

"That's it," she said. "Now go and shave and bath while I pack for you.
Hurry up; then we'll get more time."

While he splashed about she sought for his things, and packed for him as
she never packed for herself. As she gathered them she thought of the
night before, when, overwhelmed in a tempest of love, it had all been
left for the morning. She filled the suit-case, but she could not fasten
it.

"Come and help, Peter," she called.

He came out. She was kneeling on it in her loose kimono, her hair all
about her, her nightdress open at the throat. He drank her beauty in, and
then mastered himself for a minute and shut the case. "That all?" she
queried.

"Yes," he said. "You get back into bed, my darling, or you'll catch cold.
I'll be ready in a second, and then we can have a few minutes together."

At the glass he marshalled his arguments, and then he came over to her.
He dropped by the bedside and wound his arms about her. "Julie," he
whispered, "my darling, say you'll marry me--please, _please_!"

She made no reply. He kissed her, unresisting, again and again.

"Julie," he said, "you know how I love you. You do know it. You know
I'm not begging you to marry me because I've got something out of
you, perhaps when you were carried away, and now I feel I must make
reparation. My darling, it isn't that. I love you so much that I can't
live without you. I'll give up everything for you. I want to start a new
life with you. I can't go back to the old, anyhow; I don't want to: it's
a sham to me now, and I hate shams--you know I do. But you're not a sham;
our love isn't a sham. I'd die for you, Julie, my own Julie; I'd die for
the least little bit of this hair of yours, I think! But I want to live
for you. I want to put you right in the centre of everything, and live
for you, Julie. Say 'Yes,' my love, my own. You must say 'Yes,' Why don't
you, Julie?"

And still she made no reply.

A kind of despair seized him. "Oh, Julie," he cried, "what can I say or
what can I do? You're