ack to the front,' he said, when
she came to an end. 'Several firsts in Mods on our staff. I'll send
you the result.'

The talk dropped. The mention of the front reminded every one of the
war, and its bearing on their own personal lot. Desmond was going
into camp that evening. In a few months he would be a full-blown
gunner at the front. Beryl, watching Aubrey's thin face and nervous
frown, proved inwardly that the Aldershot appointment might go on.
And Elizabeth's thoughts had flown to her brother in Mesopotamia.

Pamela, sitting apart, and deeply shaded by a great beech with
drooping branches that rose behind the group, was sharply unhappy,
and filled with a burning jealousy of Elizabeth, who queened it
there in the middle of them--so self-possessed, agreeable, and
competent. How well Arthur had been getting on with her! What a
tiresome, tactless idiot she, Pamela, must seem in comparison! The
memory of her talk with him made her cheeks hot. So few chances of
seeing him!--and when they came, she threw them away. She felt for
the moment as though she hated Elizabeth. Why had her father saddled
her upon them? Life was difficult enough before. Passionately she
began to think of her threat to Arthur. It had been the merest 'idle
word.' But why shouldn't she realize it--why not 'run away'? There
was work to be done, and money to be earned, by any able-bodied
girl. And perhaps then, when she was on her own, and had proved that
she was not a child any longer, Arthur would respect her more, take
more interest in her.

'What do you prophesy?' said Elizabeth suddenly, addressing Arthur
Chicksands, who seemed to be asleep in the grass. 'Will it end--by
next summer?'

'What, the war?' he said, waking up. 'Oh dear, no. Next year will be
the worst of any--the test of us all--especially of you civilians at
home. If we stick it, we shall save ourselves and the world. If we
don't--'

He shrugged his shoulders. His voice was full and deep. It thrilled
the girl sitting in the shade--partly with fear. In three weeks or
so, the speaker would be back in the full inferno of the front, and
because of her father's behaviour she would probably not be able to
see him in the interval. Perhaps she might never see him again.
Perhaps this was the last time. And he would go away without giving
her a thought. Whereas, if she had played her cards differently,
this one last day, he might at least have asked her to write to him.
Many men did--ev