To speak would mean a drop out of the seventh heaven and back to Britain in war-time, to a world full of disappointments—and Muriel.
Even Muriel would never be able to take this one little half-hour from me when I had been Dick Holiday's only help in distress, when he had just once said "Dear" to me; even if he hardly knew in his agitation to whom he was speaking!
I should always have one perfect memory.
It was he who spoke first, in the lull that came after thunder that seemed now receding.
He lifted his head at last, and said huskily:
"Joan, I'm afraid you'll think I'm the limit. I mean you'll never think anything of me again! Cold feet—a coward!"
"A coward? You?" I retorted.
Tears rushed into my eyes again. I was red with conflicting emotions.
The young soldier beside me was still pale. I looked at his downcast face.
"You think I think you're the kind of man who gets cold feet?" I cried.