A silence. Then the voice spoke again.

'How long will it take you, George, getting to the front?'

'About twenty-four hours from the base, perhaps more. It's a weary
business.'

'Will you be in action at once?'

'I think so. That part of the line's very short of men.'

'When shall I hear?'

He laughed.

'By every possible post, I should think, darling. You've given me
post-cards enough.'

And he tapped his breast-pocket, where lay the little writing-case she
had furnished for every imaginable need.

'George!'

'Yes, darling.'

'When you're tired, you're--you're not to write.'

He put out his long arms, and took her hands in his.

'I shan't be tired--and I shall write.'