What lay in his hand was, in its way, war. He replaced it on the table precisely where it belonged, but he did so quickly.
He lit the gas mantle above the desk. Opened the lower drawer in which he had put the small, plain satchel — for remembrance. He looked at the satchel a while. Then, out of profound emotion, he inked a pen and wrote with great speed.
My dear Orry,
When you returned this valise, you performed an act of supreme decency and courage. It is one I shall hope to repay in kind someday. But in case I do not — cannot — I place these words herein so you will know my intentions. Know most of all that I want to preserve the bonds of affection between us and our families which have grown and strengthened for so many years — want to, and have striven to, despite Virgilia, despite Ashton — despite the lessons about war's nature which I learned in Mexico but forgot until tonight. I know you believe in the worth of this bond as much as I do. But it is fragile as a stalk of wheat before the iron scythe. If we fail to preserve what so richly merits preservation — or if some Hazard or Main falls, as, God pity us, some surely may if this conflict is anything other than brief — you will know I prized friendship to the last. Prized and never abandoned it. As I know you have not. I pray we meet when it ends, but if we do not, I bid you — from my deepest heart — an affectionate good-bye.
Your friend —
He started to inscribe the initial letter of his first name but then, with a swift, sad smile, wrote instead his West Point nickname. Stump.
He slowly folded the sheets; slowly placed them in the satchel and latched it; slowly closed the drawer and arose to the accompaniment of several irritating noises from his joints. Windows were open throughout Belvedere because of the warm night. He smelled the diminishing fetor of burning carried by the high wind. He felt cold and old as he put out the gas and wearily climbed the stairs.