the upshot was that I went off not knowing
whether I'd done right or been a fool, and a week later
Sylvia broke off her engagement to Charles Crawley.
After that
the war happened, and there wash'! much leisure
for thinking of anything else. Once or twice
when I was on leave, I came acr. oss Sylvia, but as
far as possible I avoided her.
I loved
her and wanted her just as badly as ever, but I
felt, somehow, that it wouldn't be playing the game.
It was owing to me that she'd broken off her
engagement to Crawley, and 1 kept sayin8
186
Agatha Christie
to myself that I could only justify the action I had
taken by making my attitude a purely disinterested
one.
Then, in 1916, Nell was killed and it fell to me
to tell Sylvia about his last moments. We couldn't
remain on a formal footing after that. Sylvia had
adored Nell and he had been my best friend. She
was sweet--adorably sweet in her grief. I just
managed to hold my tongue and went out again
praying that a bullet might end the whole miser-able
business. Life without Sylvia wasn't worth
living.
But there was no bullet with my name on it. One
nearly got me below the right ear and one was
deflected by a cigarette case in my pocket, but I