I'm not dreaming of
asking you to say a word to win her favour. That would be
outrageous impudence. You clearly understand. I don't want you
ever to mention my name unless I'm dead. If I feel that I've an
advocate in you--advocatus diaboli, if you like--I'll go away
happy. You've got your brief. You know my life at home. You know
my record."
"My dear fellow," said I, "I promise to do everything in my power
to carry out your wishes. But as to your record--are you quite
certain that I know it?"
You must realise that there was a curious tension in the
situation, at any rate as far as it affected myself. Here was a
man with whom, for reasons you know, I had studiously cultivated
the most formal social relations, claiming my active participation
in the secret motives of his heart. Since his first return from
the front a bluff friendliness had been the keynote of our
intercourse. Nothing more. Now he came and without warning
enmeshed me in this intimate net of love and death. I promised to
do his bidding--I could not do otherwise. I was in the position of
an executor according to the terms of a last will and testament.
Our comradeship in arms--those of our old Army who survive will
understand--forbade refusal.
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