Yvonne was grave and troubled now, looking at him. She put her hands against his face and brought it down to hers. Bitter-sweet, that kiss, and long . . . long . . . because there would not be many more. . . .
"Yvonne, you can't go!"
"I must, my dear."
"But why? Why?"
"I have to, that's all."
"You mean you want to!" Jock accused angrily. "You're going because you want to go, and I—I—" He broke off, unable to express himself. He drew away, dug his chin into the palm of one hand, and glared ahead of him. He would have been horrified to know how like a sulky little boy he looked. "But of course," he added, "it doesn't make any difference to you how I feel."
"It makes a tremendous difference, Jock Hamill."
He glanced at her sharply. "You mean you won't go after all?"
"I mean that I rather wanted to go, before," said Yvonne, "and now I don't want to go, and I'm sorry I have to, since it hurts you."
"Then don't! Why do you have to! Don't go! Stay here with me—marry me—" He was holding her close again, crushing her. "Yvonne, why won't you marry me? Don't you care a little about me?" Suddenly he reminded himself of Molly. Those words were Molly's, once. That hurt beseeching tone was Molly's. And what a fool Molly had seemed. . . .
His arms dropped away and he put his head in his hands. "God, this world!" he muttered. "No justice. Men love women who don't love them, and are loved in turn by women they don't love"
"Dear," said Yvonne, "I do love you. Quite a great deal. I told you that the last time you were
