Cliff, he wanted to say (and the tears came into his eyes at the thought): I’ve grown very fond of you. Cliff; good luck—all the best. . . . But it was something he would never be able to put into words. He stood there a moment longer, watching Cliff go down the long hall, walking with a self-­conscious toughness because he knew he was being observed.

It was ended. He had done his best, his willful dangerous best, and nothing had come of it. The thing was over, he was free again (they were both free—free to love and ignore one another, as one does even with the best of friends), and his inexpressible relief that both he and Cliff had escaped danger was so all-­embracing that he began to love Cliff Hauman all over again, as he should be loved. Watching him for the last time going off on his destructive natural way—so out of place in the colorless hotel corridor when his proper setting was the company platoon, the LST, or the beachhead—he could not but wish him well from the depths of his heart. . . . Good luck, Cliff; God bless you; so long! . . . They wouldn’t be meeting again, no, not tomorrow or ever. Too bad, too, for in spite of his frustration, there would be more point in it now than there ever had been before. But he had his work to do and Cliff had his, and their paths were not likely to cross again, no matter what the future might bring. He wondered whether Cliff would remember or think of him. He doubted if he would very often think of Cliff, though he knew he would never forget him. . . .

In his room at last, his lonely room now, he took up a pencil and a sheet and envelope of the fancy hotel stationery, and did what he knew to be either a very futile or a very reckless thing. He wrote:

My dear Cliff:

I am confident that you will pass your examination in Brooklyn like, as you say, a breeze. Anyone whose heart is so set on a thing as yours is on this, deserves to get it. I wish you well with everything I’ve got.

But now that our relationship is over, I can’t help but feel a little sad, foolish though it may be of me, and still more foolish though it may be to say it. In this connection, it has occurred to me that you might or might not be interested to know that I will be home, alone, on the Monday following your trip to Brooklyn. I say alone because, as you know, Ethel is to stay on in Maine for a while and I will be most awfully in need of company. I think you know how happy it would make me to see you again. The address is 532 West 116th Street, the telephone number is Cathedral 6-­4324.

Affectionately,

“Johnnie”