Upton."

At least she held Sylvia a moment longer, Sylvia who had said nothing,
who had not met his eyes, who had seemed from the first anxious to
escape from this plank room littered with the paraphernalia of battle.
Mrs. Planter held out her hand, smiling.

"Good-bye, Major. One doesn't need to wish you success. You inspire
confidence."

He was surprised at the strength of her white hand, felt it draw him
closer, watched her bend her head, heard her speak in his ear so low
that Sylvia couldn't hear--a whisper intense, agonized, of a quality
that seemed like a white-hot iron in his brain:

"Take care of my son. Bring him back to me."

She straightened, releasing his hand.

"Come, Sylvia," she said, pleasantly.

Without looking back she went out.

"Good luck, Major," Sylvia said, and prepared to follow.

Quickly George reached out, caught her arm, and drew her away from the
door.

"You're not going to say good-bye like this."

In her effort to escape, in her flushed face, in her angry eyes, he read
her understanding that no other man she knew could have done just this,
that it was George Morton's way. Why not? He had no time for veneer now.
It was his moment, probably his last with her.

With her free hand she reached behind her to steady herself against the
table. Her fingers touched the gas mask that lay there, then stiffened
and moved away. Some of the colour left her face. Her arm became passive
in his grasp.

"Let me go. How do you want me to say good-bye?"

He caught her other arm.

"Give me something to take. Oh, God, Sylvia! Let me have my kiss."

VIII

Never since he had walked out of the great gate with Sylvia's dog at his
heels to a wilful tutoring of his body and brain had George yielded to
such untrammelled emotion, to so unbounded a desire. This moment of
parting, in which he had felt himself helpless, had swept it all
away--the carefully applied manner, the solicitous schooling of an
impulsive brain, the minute effort to resemble the class of which he had
imagined himself a part. Temporarily he was back at the starting point,
the George Morton who had lifted Sylvia in his arms, blurting out
impossible words, staring at her lips with an abrupt and narrow
realization that sooner or later he would have to touch them.

Sylvia's quick action brought some of it back, but he had no remorse, no
feeling of reversion, for the moment itself was naked, inimical to
masquerade.

"Lambert!" s