G.J. was now more than startled; he was shocked; he felt his cheeks reddening.  It was the presence of Molder that confused him.  Never had he talked to Molder on any subjects but the arts, and if they had once or twice lighted on the topic of women it was only in connection with the arts.  He was really interested in and admired Molder’s unusual aesthetic intelligence, and he had done what he could to foster it, and he immensely appreciated Molder’s youthful esteem for himself.  Moreover, he was easily old enough to be Molder’s father.  It seemed to him that though two generations might properly mingle in anything else, they ought not to mingle in licence.  Craive’s crudity was extraordinary.

“See here!” Craive went on, serious and determined.  “You know the sort of thing I’ve come from.  I got four days unexpected.  I had to run down to my uncle’s.  The old things would have died if I hadn’t.  To-morrow I go back.  This is my last night.  I haven’t had a scratch up to now.  But my turn’s coming, you bet.  Next week I may be in heaven or hell or anywhere, or blind for life or without my legs or any damn thing you please.  But I’m going to have to-night, and you’re going to join in.”

G.J. saw the look of simple, half-worshipful appeal that sometimes came into Craive’s rather ingenuous face.  He well knew that look, and it always touched him.  He remembered certain descriptive letters which he had received from Craive at the Front,—­they corresponded faithfully.  He could not have explained the intimacy of his relations with Craive.  They had begun at a club, over cards.  The two had little in common—­Craive was a stockbroker when world-wars did not happen to be in progress—­but G.J. greatly liked him because, with all his crudity, he was such a decent, natural fellow, so kind-hearted, so fresh and unassuming.  And Craive on his part had developed an admiration for G.J. which G.J. was quite at a loss to account for.  The one clue to the origin of the mysterious attachment between them had been a naive phrase which he had once overheard Craive utter to a mutual acquaintance:  “Old G.J.’s so subtle, isn’t he?”

G.J. said to himself, reconsidering the proposal: 

“And why on earth not?”

And then aloud, soothingly, to Craive: 

“All right!  All right!”

The Major brightened and said to Molder: 

“You’ll come, of course?”

“Oh, rather!” answered Molder, quite simply.

And G.J., again to himself, said: 

“I am a simpleton.”

The Major’s pleading, and the spectacle of the two officers with their precarious hold on life, humiliated G.J. as well as touched him.  And, if only in order to avoid the momentary humiliation, he would have been well content to be able to roll back his existence and to have had a military training and to be with them in the sacred and proud uniform.

“Now listen here!” said the Major.  “About the aforesaid pretty ladies—­”