And
finally the cathedral was startled by the sudden trumpets of the Last
Post, and the ceremony ended.
"Come and have lunch with me," said the young red-hatted officer next
to G.J. "I haven't got to be back till two-thirty, and I want to talk
music for a change. Do you know I'm putting in ninety hours a week at
the W.O.?"
"Can't," G.J. replied, with an affectation of jauntiness. "I'm engaged
for lunch. Sorry."
"Who you lunching with?"
"Mrs. Smith."
The Staff officer exclaimed aghast:
"Conception?"
"Yes. Why, dear heart?"
"My dear chap. You don't know. Carlos Smith's been killed. _She_
doesn't know yet. I only heard by chance. News came through just as I
left. Nobody knows except a chap or two in Casualties. They won't be
sending out to-day's wires until two or three o'clock."
G.J., terrified and at a loss, murmured:
"What am I to do, then?"
"You know her extremely well, don't you? You ought to go and prepare
her."
"But how can I prepare her?"
"I don't know. How do people prepare people?... Poor thing!"
G.J. fought against the incredible fact of death.
"But he only went out six days ago! They haven't been married three
weeks."
The central hardness of the other disclosed itself as he said:
"What's that got to do with it? What does it matter if he went out six
days ago or six weeks ago? He's killed.
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