My Dear Mr. Herrick:
A communication from Mrs. Fidelia Bolton, to-day received from England, bears information which may be of concern to you. Samuel Bolton, her husband, was wounded in an action near the Dendre in October and since has died in a hospital in London.
Looking up, David saw that Alice was in her own room, and he moved from sight of her.
So Bolton was dead; that tall, vaunting man who had first been Fidelia's husband and then, five years later, had drawn her to him again, was dead; he who had cooked that first camp supper with her, the best ever though it was burnt black, he was dead; he who boasted exultantly of his tremendous eleven days with her which "were days," he was dead; and it was impossible for David Herrick to slow his pulse of triumph over that. If he had won no more than mere survival itself, yet he was alive, Bolton was dead.
But Fidelia—Fidelia Bolton, Mrs. Fidelia Bolton? "A communication . . . which may be of concern to you." What did Edward Jessop mean by that; what had Fidelia written? "Of concern to you . . . Samuel Bolton, her husband . . . has died."
"No concern of mine," David whispered to himself. "No concern of mine. She went to him; she wanted to go."
Alice was moving about in her room and he heard her; he saw her slight figure pass the doorway and he thrust his hand with the letter into his pocket. "It's
