think I don't understand. In the present position there are no
subtleties and no complications. Good-night."

Marigold, with a wooden face, opened wide the door, and Randall,
with a shrug of the shoulders, went out.

I stayed awake the whole of that livelong night.

When I learned the death of young Oswald Fenimore, whom I loved
far more dearly than Randall Holmes, I went to bed and slept
peacefully. A gallant lad died in battle; there is nothing more to
be said, nothing more to be thought. The finality, heroically
sublime, overwhelms the poor workings of the brain. But in the
case of a fellow like Randall Holmes--well, as I have said, I did
not get a wink of sleep the whole night long.

Someone, a few months ago, told me of a young university man--
Oxford or Cambridge, I forget--who, when asked why he was not
fighting, replied; "What has the war to do with me? I disapprove
of this brawling."

Was that the attitude of Randall, whom I had known all his life
long? I shivered, like a fool, all night. The only consolation I
had was to bring commonsense to my aid and to meditate on the
statistical fact that the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge
were practically empty.

But my soul was sick for young Randall Holmes.