Page:No More Parades (Albert & Charles Boni).djvu/91

 He imagined she had gone into retreat. She had said she was going. For the rest of the war For the duration of hostilities or life, whichever were the longer He imagined Sylvia, coiled up on a convent bed Hating Her certainly glorious hair all round her Hating Slowly and coldly Like the head of a snake when you examined it Eyes motionless: mouth closed tight Looking away into the distance and hating She was presumably in Birkenhead A long way to send your hatred Across a country and a sea in an icy night Over all that black land and water with the lights out because of air-raids and U-boats  Well, he did not have to think of Sylvia at the moment. She was well out of it

It was certainly getting no warmer as the night drew on Even that ass Levin was pacing swiftly up and down in the dusky moon-shadow of the last hutments that looked over the slope and the vanishing trail of white stones In spite of his boasting about not wearing an overcoat: to catch women's eyes with his pretty Staff gadgets he was carrying on like a leopard at feeding time

Tietjens said:

"Sorry to keep you waiting, old man Or rather your lady But there were some men to see to And, you know 'The comfort and—what is it?—of the men comes before every—is it "consideration"?—except the exigencies of actual warfare My memory's gone phut these days And you want me to slide down this hill and wheeze back again To see a woman"

Levin screeched: "Damn you, you ass! It's your wife who's waiting for you at the bottom there."