He dropped it, spun round, stood motionless. The moon shone in on him; a moth flew in his face. The first day of all that he had not thought almost ceaselessly of Jolly. He went blindly towards the window, struck against the old armchair⁠—his father’s⁠—and sank down on to the arm of it. He sat there huddled forward, staring into the night. Gone out like a candle flame; far from home, from love, all by himself, in the dark! His boy! From a little chap always so good to him⁠—so friendly! Twenty years old, and cut down like grass⁠—to have no life at all! “I didn’t really know him,” he thought, “and he didn’t know me; but we loved each other. It’s only love that matters.”