Jealously she pressed him to her.
"They shan't get you, my lad," she said between her teeth. "I'll see to that."
"I'm not afraid o them," answered Ernie drowsily. "I knaw the Germans. All you got to do is to say Shoo!—and goo with your arms and they're off like rabbits from the garden."
She thrust his head back till she saw it as a dim blob against the shining night; and looked up into his eyes, her own so close to his, so deep, so dear.
"You're my soldier," she murmured in his ear. "I always knew you was."
Then she drew his face down to hers, till their lips met.
"I got something to tell you, Ern."
Now she leaned over him. The moon shone on the smooth sweep of her shoulders, rounded and luminous.
"I only deceived you the once, Ern," she whispered, her voice murmuring like a stream that issued from the slowly-heaving ocean of her chest. "Afore we were married. He ne'er wrote me ne'er a letter."
"I knew that then," muttered Ernie, sleepily, his head beside her own.