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Rh For a moment something stuck in his throat. He saw just such another breakfast room, with a woman staring with dull eyes at the laconic name in the paper: a name which so baldly confirmed the wire she had had three days before. Stunned, still dazed by the shock, she sat silently, apathetically; as yet she could hardly feel the blow which Fate had dealt her. In time perhaps; just now—well, it couldn't be; there must be some mistake. Other men had died—true; but—not hers. He was different; there must be some mistake. …

For each and every name in that list Clive Draycott of a sudden realised the same thing was occurring. And then he saw it—personally; he felt it—personally; he realised that it concerned him—personally. Those other women had looked, just as had his mother and the girl, a few weeks ago. Those other women had laughed and joked and asked casual questions to cover their true feelings, just the same. Those other women had been through it all and "We only see them before we go—never after." In the theatre, at the restaurant, playing the fool with us, dancing with us—then we see them; afterwards—when the train has gone and we are looking out of the window or talking with the man opposite, then, we do not see them. And it is just as well. "Mon Dieu! Quelle vâche de guerre." …

Something of all this did Draycott feel at that moment; something which caught him and shook him and mocked him. Something which whispered, "You ass, you wretched ass! You think it's