Hugo reread the letter and stood awhile with wistful eyes. He remembered Shayne’s Aunt Emma, Shayne’s bitter calumniation of his family. Well, they had not understood him and he had not wanted them to understand him. Perhaps Shayne had been more content than he admitted in the mud of the trenches. The war had been a real thing to him. Hugo thought of its insufficiencies for himself. The world was not enough for Shayne, but the war had been. Both were insufficient for Hugo Danner. He listened to the thunder in the sky tiredly.

Two months later Hugo was ordered from rest billets to the major’s quarters. A middle-aged man and woman accompanied by a sleek Frenchman awaited him. The man stepped forward with dignified courtesy. “I am Tom Shayne’s father. This is Mrs. Shayne.”

Hugo felt a great lack of interest in them. They had come too late. It was their son who had been his friend. He almost regretted the letter. He shook hands with them. Mrs. Shayne went to an automobile. Her husband invited Hugo to a café. Over the wine he became suddenly less dignified, more human, and almost pathetic. “Tell me about him, Danner. I loved that kid once, you know.”

Hugo found himself unexpectedly moved. The man was so eager, so strangely happy. He stroked his white moustache and turned away moist eyes. So Hugo told him. He talked endlessly of the trenches and the dark wet nights and the fire that stabbed through them. He invented brave sorties for his friend, tripled his accomplishments, and put gaiety and wit in his mouth. The father drank every syllable as if he was committing the whole story to memory as the text of a life’s solace. At last he was crying.

“That was the Tom I knew,” Hugo said softly.

“And that was the Tom I dreamed and hoped and thought he would become when he was a little shaver. Well, he did, Danner.”

“A thousand times he did.”

Ralph Jordan Shayne blew his nose unashamedly. He thought of his patiently waiting wife. “I’ve got to go, I suppose. This has been more than kind of you, Mr. Danner—Lieutenant Danner. I’m glad—more glad than I can say—that you were there. I understand from the major that you’re no small shakes in this army yourself.” He smiled deferentially. “I wish there was something we could do for you.”

“Nothing. Thank you, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m going to give you my card. In New York—my name is not without meaning.”

“It is very familiar to me. Was before I met your son.”

“If you ever come to the city—I mean, when you come—you must look us up. Anything we can do—in the way of jobs, positions—” He was confused.