WORLD'S END

Lanny was excited, of course. He wanted to know about Nina, and what she looked like - Rick had a little picture, which showed a slender, birdlike person with an eager, intense expression. Lanny admired her, and Rick was pleased. Lanny asked what she was studying, and about her family - her father was a barrister, but not a successful one; she would be one of these new women who had careers of their own, kept their own names, and so on. None of this clinging sort.

Lanny said that his father was taking him to London soon. Could he meet her? Rick said: "Of course."

"Could I give her a present, do you suppose? Would she like some picture that we could pick up for her?"

"You'd better wait," laughed the other, "and see what happens to me. If I'm put out, you'd better give her a baby basket."

"I'll give her both!" Lanny had recently become aware of the fact that his father had a pile of money.

"No Caliph of Bagdad business!" countered his friend. "You pick out a book that may keep her from being lonely, and write something in it, so she can remember you when you marry an oil princess in Connecticut."

"There isn't any oil in Connecticut, Rick."

"Well, nutmegs then. Your father says it's called the Nutmeg State. You'll make a whole crop of new princesses out of this war. They'll be bored, and they'll be crazy about you because you speak French, and dance, and have culture - you'll rank with a marquis or a Russian grand duke in exile."

Lanny was amused by this picture of himself in New England. He wanted to say: "They'll find out that I'm a bastard." But his lips were sealed.

Half a day, a night, and another day; never had thirty hours moved with such speed! They went to the Comedie Franзaise, and sat in a box; they had a meal at midnight, and Robbie ordered an extra bottle of wine. They strolled on the boulevards in the morning, luxuriating in the sunshine, watching the crowds and gazing at the fine things for sale. Lanny bought a stock of chocolates, the one thing Rick admitted the chaps in the air force would appreciate. They picked up an old-fashioned open carriage with a bony but lively horse, and were driven about the Bois and the main boulevards, looking at historic buildings and remembering what they could of events. Rick knew a little about everything; he had all his old assurance, his worldly manner which impressed his younger friend so greatly.

Robbie came back to the hotel, feeling good, because Zaharoff's factotum had given way, and the other companies were giving way, and Robbie was collecting signatures on dotted lines. Lanny had to ask him not to be too exultant until Rick was gone. "You know how it is, he's giving his life, maybe, while we're making money."

"All right," said the salesman, with one of his chuckles. "I'll be good; but you tell Rick that if his old man wants to sell The Reaches, you'll buy it!" No use asking Robbie to shed any tears over the English aristocracy. They had had their day, and now the American businessmen were to have theirs. Gangway!

However, Robbie was very decent when the time for parting came. He had a big package delivered to Rick's room, and told him not to open it until he got back to camp. He told Lanny it contained cigarettes; the baronet's son would be the darling of the corps wing for a time. Robbie shook hands with him, and said "Cheerio," in the approved English fashion.

Lanny went to the train, and had tears in his eyes, he just couldn't help it. It would have been very bad form for Rick to have them; he said: "Thanks, old chap, you've been perfectly bully to me." And then: "Take care of yourself, and don't let the subs get you."

"Write me a post card every now and then," pleaded Lanny. "You know how it is, if I don't hear from you, I'll worry."

"Don't do that," said Rick. "Whatever comes, that's what comes." It was the nearest a modern man could approach to having a philosophy.

"Well, look out for the Fokkers - get them first!"

"Right-o!" The whistle blew, and Rick bolted, just in time for the train and for the honor of the Royal Flying Corps. Lanny stood, with tears flowing freely. "Good-by, Rick! Good-by!" His voice died into a sort of sob as the train moved on, and the face of Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson disappeared, perhaps forever. That was the dreadful thing about wartime, you couldn't part from anybody without the thought: "I'll probably not see him again!"

VIII

The youth kept talking about this depressing idea until it worried his father. "You know, kid," he remarked, "you just can't be too soft in this world. It's painful to think of people getting killed, and I don't know the answer, except that maybe we put too much value on human life; we try to make more out of it than nature allows. This is certain, if you're too sensitive, and suffer too much, you wreck your own happiness, and maybe your health, and then what are you worth to yourself or anybody else?"