Dinny made the effort needed to go round to South Square next morning. Except with Clare on her arrival from Ceylon, she had not been there since the day of Wilfrid’s departure to Siam.

“Up in his workroom, miss.”

“Thank you, Coaker, I’ll go up.”

Michael did not hear her come in, and she stood for a moment looking at the caricature-covered walls. It always seemed to her so odd that Michael, inclined to over-estimate human virtues, should surround himself with the efforts of those who live by exaggerating human defects.

“Am I interrupting, Michael?”

“Dinny! You’re looking a treat! You gave us a bad turn, old thing. Sit down! I was only looking into potatoes — their figures are so puzzling.”

They talked for some time, and then, the knowledge of what she had come for invading both, fell silent.

“You’ve something to give or tell me, Michael.”

He went to a drawer, and took out a little packet. Dinny unwrapped it in her lap. There was a letter, a little photograph, a badge.

“It’s his passport photo, and D.S.O. ribbon. In the letter there’s something for you; in fact, the whole letter is really for you. They’re all for you. Excuse me, I have to see Fleur before she goes out.”

Dinny sat motionless, looking at the photograph. Yellowed with damp and heat, it had the uncompromising reality that characterises passport photographs. “Wilfrid Desert” was written across it, and he looked straight at her out of the pasteboard. She turned it face down on her lap, and smoothed the ribbon, which was stained and crushed. Then, nerving herself, she opened the letter. From it dropped a folded sheet, which she set apart. The letter was to Michael.

“New Year’s Day.

“DEAR OLD M. M. —

“Greetings to you and Fleur, and many good years! I’m far up north in a very wild part of this country with an objective that I may reach or not — the habitation of a tribe quite definitely pre-Siamese and non-Mongolian. Adrian Charwell would be interested. I’ve often meant to let you know my news, but, when it came to writing, didn’t — partly because if you don’t know this part of the world description’s no use, and partly because it’s difficult for me to believe that anybody can be interested. I’m writing now really to ask you to tell Dinny that I am at peace with myself at last. I don’t know whether it’s the strength and remoteness of the atmosphere out here, or whether I’ve gained some of the Eastern conviction that the world of other men does not matter; one’s alone from birth to death, except for that fine old companion, the Universe — of which one is the microcosm. It’s a kind of queer peace, and I often wonder how I could have been so torn and tortured. Dinny, I think, will be glad to know this; just as I would be truly glad to know that she, too, is at peace.

“I’ve written a little, and, if I come back from this business, shall try and produce some account of it. In three days from now we reach the river, cross it, and follow up a western tributary towards the Himalayas.

“Faint echoes of the crisis you’ve been having trickle out here. Poor old England! I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again; but she’s a game old bird when put to it, and I can’t see her being beaten; in fact, properly moulted, I expect her to fly better than ever.

“Good-bye, old man, my love to you both; and to Dinny my special love.

“WILFRID.”

Peace! And she? She rewrapped the ribbon, photograph, and letter and thrust them into her bag. Making no noise, she opened the door, went down the stairs, and out into the sunshine.

Alone by the river, she unfolded the sheet she had taken from the letter, and, under a plane tree as yet bare of leaves, read these verses:

“Lie Still!

“The sun, who brings all earth to bloom,
Corrupts and makes corruption flower,
Is just a flame that thro’ the gloom
Of heaven burns a little hour;

And, figured on the chart of night —
A somewhat negligible star —
Is but a pinpricked point of light
As million-million others are;

And, though it be the all in all
Of ............