To this very room he had come back after hearing she was dead; this very
room which he had refurnished to her taste, so that even now, with
its satinwood chairs, little dainty Jacobean bureau, shaded old brass
candelabra, divan, it still had an air exotic to bachelordom. There, on
the table, had been a letter recalling him to his regiment, ordered on
active service. If he had realized what he would go through before
he had the chance of trying to lose his life out there, he would
undoubtedly have taken that life, sitting in this very chair before the
fire--the chair sacred to her and memory. He had not the luck he wished
for in that little war--men who don't care whether they live or die
seldom have. He secured nothing but distinction. When it was over, he
went on, with a few more lines in his face, a few more wrinkles in his
heart, soldiering, shooting tigers, pig-sticking, playing polo, riding
to hounds harder than ever; giving nothing away to the world; winning
steadily the curious, uneasy admiration that men feel for those who
combine reckless daring with an ice-cool manner. Since he was less of a
talker even than most of his kind, and had never in his life talked of
women, he did not gain the reputation of a woman-hater, though he so
manifestly avoided them. After six years' service in India and Egypt, he
lost his right hand in a charge against dervishes, and had, perforce, to
retire, with the rank of major, aged thirty-four.
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