This was a special and a private agony of the
gods reserved for victims approved for very nice and exquisite
experiment. He felt himself squeezed right down beneath a pressure
squeezing to his vitals; and there was squeezed out of him just a
whimper.

He walked across to the fireplace; and on the high mantle-shelf laid his
arms and bowed his forehead to the marble.

Twyning was brokenly saying, "It's good of you to come, Sabre. I feel
it. After that business. I'm sorry about it, Sabre. I feel your goodness
coming to me like this. But you know, you always knew, what my boy was
to me. My Harold. My Harold. Such a good boy, Sabre. Such a good,
Christian boy. And now he's gone, he's gone. Never to see him again. My
boy. My son. My son!"

Oh, dreadful!

And he went on, distraught and pitiable. "My boy. My Harold. Such a good
boy, Sabre. Such a perfect boy. My Harold!"

The letter was crumpled in Sabre's right hand. He was constricting it in
his hand and knocking his clenched knuckles on the marble.

"My boy. My dear, good boy. Oh, Sabre, Sabre!"

He dropped his right arm and swung it by his side; to and fro; over the
fender--over the fire; over the hearth--over the flames.

"My Harold. Never to see his face again! My Harold."

He stopped his swinging arm, holding his hand above the flames. "He that
dwelleth in love dwelleth in God and God in him; for God is love." He
opened his fingers, and the crumpled letter fell and was consumed. He
pushed himself up from the mantlepiece and turned and went over to
Twyning and stood over him again. He patted Twyning's heaving shoulders.
"There, there, Twyning. Bad luck. Bad luck. Hard. Hard. Bear up,
Twyning. Soldier's death.... Finest death.... Died for his country....
Fine boy.... Soldier's death.... Bad luck. Bad luck, Twyning...."

Twyning, inarticulate, pushed up his hand and felt for Sabre's hand and
clutched it and squeezed it convulsively.

Sabre said again, "There, there, Twyning. Hard. Hard. Fine death....
Brave boy...." He disengaged his hand and turned and walked very slowly
from the room.

He went along the passage, past Mr. Fortune's door towards that which
had been his own, still walking very slowly and with his hand against
the wall to steady himself. He felt deathly ill....

He went into his own room, unentered by him for many months, now his own
room no more, and dropped heavily into the familiar chair at the
familiar desk. He put his arms out along the