d be afraid, and
she would be afraid, and he would let her go.

The bell rang, the garden gate swung open; his feet were loud and quick
on the flagged path of the terrace. He came into the room to them,
holding himself rather stiffly and very upright. His eyes shone with
excitement. He laughed the laugh she loved, that narrowed his eyes and
jerked his mouth slightly crooked.

They all spoke at once. "You've got leave?" "_He's_ got it all right."
"What kept you?" "You _have_ got leave?"

His eyes still shone; his mouth still jerked, laughing.

"Well, no," he said. "That's what I haven't got. In fact, I'm lucky to
be here at all."

Nanna came in with the coffee. He took his cup from her and sat down on
the sofa beside Frances, stirring his coffee with his spoon, and smiling
as if at something pleasant that he knew, something that he would tell
them presently when Nanna left the room.

The door closed softly behind her. He seemed to be listening intently
for the click of the latch.

"Funny chaps," he said meditatively. "They keep putting you off till you
come and tell them you want to get married to-morrow. Then they say
they're sorry, but your marching orders are fixed for that day.

"Twelve hours isn't much notice to give a fellow."

He had not looked at Dorothy. He had not spoken to her. He was speaking
to Anthony and John and Frances who were asking questions about trains
and boats and his kit and his people. He looked as if he were not
conscious of Dorothy's eyes fixed on him as he sat, slowly stirring his
coffee without drinking it. The vibration of her nerves made his answers
sound muffled and far-off.

She knew that her hour was dwindling slowly, wasting, passing from her
minute by minute as they talked. She had an intolerable longing to be
alone with him, to be taken in his arms; to feel what she had felt
yesterday. It was as if her soul stood still there, in yesterday, and
refused to move on into to-day.

Yet she was glad of their talking. It put off the end. When they stopped
talking and got up and left her alone with him, that would be the end.

Suddenly he looked straight at her. His hands trembled. The cup he had
not drunk from rattled in its saucer. It seemed to Dorothea that for a
moment the whole room was hushed to listen to that small sound. She saw
her mother take the cup from him and set it on the table.

One by one they got up, and slunk out of the room, as if they were
guilty, and left