There was silence for a little, and it was Peter who broke it.

“Just before breakfast,” he said, “you asked me what I should do, and I had no chance to reply.  Well, they were talking of it in the vestry just now, and I’ve made up my mind.  I shall write to-night to the Bishop and ask for a chaplaincy.”

They walked on a hundred yards or so in silence again.  Then Hilda broke it.  “Peter,” she began, and stopped.  He glanced at her quickly, and saw in a minute that the one word had spoken truly to him.

“Oh, Hilda,” he said, “do you really care all that?  You can’t possibly!  Oh, if we were not here, and I could tell you all I feel!  But, dear, I love you; I know now that I have loved you for months, and it is just because I love you that I must go.”

“Peter,” began Hilda again, and again stopped.  Then she took a grip of herself, and spoke out bravely.  “Oh, Peter,” she said, “you’ve guessed right.  I never meant you to—­at least, not yet, but it is terrible to think of you going out there.  I suppose I ought to be glad and proud, and in a way I am, but you don’t seem the right person for it.  It’s wasting you.  And I don’t know what I shall do without you.  You’ve become the centre of my life.  I count on seeing you, and on working with you.  If you go, you, you may ...  Oh, I can’t say it!  I ought not to say all this.  But...”  She broke off abruptly.

Graham glanced round him.  They were in the park now, and no one in particular was about in the quiet of the sidewalk.  He put his hand out, and drew her gently to a seat.  Then, leaning forward and poking at the ground with his stick, he began.  “Hilda, darling,” he said, “it’s awful to have to speak to you just now and just like this, but I must.  First, about ourselves.  I love you with all my heart, only that’s so little to say; I love you so much that you fill my life.  And I have planned my life with you.  I hardly knew it, but I had.  I thought I should just go on and get a living and marry you—­perhaps, if you would (I can hardly speak of it now I know you would)—­and—­and—­oh, I don’t know—­make a name in the Church, I suppose.  Well, and I hope we shall one day, but now this has come along.  I really feel all I said this morning, awfully.  I shall go out—­I must.  The men must be helped; one can’t sit still and imagine them dying, wounded, tempted, and without a priest.  It’s a supreme chance.  We shall be fighting for honour and truth, and the Church must be there to bear her witness and speak her message.  There will be no end to do.  And it is a chance of a lifetime to get into touch with the men, and understand them.  You do see that, don’t you?  And, besides—­forgive me, but I must put it so—­if He had compassion on the multitude, ought we not to have too? He showed it by death; ought we to fear even that too?”