thought of that.'

It was still only the third month of the war, and the old pre-war ideas
were still alive.

'Of course. But it won't make much difference to them. I shall be earning
a shilling a day, at least.'

'You'd better speak to father, I think,' she replied heavily.

Egbert went to his father-in-law. The elderly man's heart was full of
resentment.

'I should say,' he said rather sourly, 'it is the best thing you could
do.'

Egbert went and joined up immediately, as a private soldier. He was
drafted into the light artillery.

Winifred now had a new duty towards him: the duty of a wife towards a
husband who is himself performing his duty towards the world. She loved
him still. She would always love him, as far as earthly love went. But it
was duty she now lived by. When he came back to her in khaki, a soldier,
she submitted to him as a wife. It was her duty. But to his passion she
could never again fully submit. Something prevented her, for ever: even
her own deepest choice.

He went back again to camp. It did not suit him to be a modern soldier.
In the thick, gritty, hideous khaki his subtle physique was extinguished
as if he had been killed. In the ugly intimacy of the camp his