"We can't stay here and talk.

But I couldn't _not_ say it! Oh, I say, be _good_ to him! You would, if he had only a day to live because some damned German bullet had struck him.

You're life--you're youngness--you're _to-day_! Don't say 'No' to _anything_ he asks of you--for God's sake, don't." "I'd give him my heart in his two hands," gasped Robin.

"I couldn't give him my soul because it was always his." "God take care of the pair of you--and be good to the rest of us," whispered George, wringing her hands hard and dropping them.
That was how he went away.
A few weeks later he was lying, a mangled object, in a field in Flanders.

One of thousands--living, laughing, good as honest bread is good; the possible passer-on of life and force and new thinking for new generations--one of hundreds of thousands--one of millions before the end came--nice, healthy, normal-minded George, son and heir of a house of decent nobles..