"How far did you get?" Ashton asked.
     "I got right up to them," Kimble said. "We fought hell out of them."
     He gently pulled the bandage back and examined the wound. It was not bleeding any more, but a glossy clear fluid was oozing from the hole above Ashton's ear.
     "Doc says I'm lucky," Ashton said. "I could have bled to death." He suddenly winced. "But I do feel right dizzy, and my whole head aches."
     "You rest," Kimble said, pushing the bandage back into place.
     Ashton would die, he knew, and the doctor was merely being kind not to inform him so. Kimble had seen such brain injuries before, and when blood came, they lived. When the clear fluid came forth, they died.
     "Guess we won't find heaven today, will we?" Ashton whispered.
     Kimble left him.
  There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little blue tea-napkins for sails.
     "Shall we sit here?"
     She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair.
     "We may as well. Why not?" said she.
     Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced and bit her lip again. Silence.
     The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. "Tea - coffee? China tea - or iced tea with lemon?"
     Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't really want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!"    
That night he buried Ashton. He didn't want to leave him in enemy soil, but there was no choice. He formed a crude cross of sticks above the place, then sat and waited for the sunset.