That suspense was not (curiously enough) too agonised for his safety.
She had laughed quite easily the day that one of the older workmen had said to her kindly, if tactlessly:
"Ah, Miss Williams—or ma'am, as I s'pose I ought to say—I do feel sorry for you, I do. You here, same as when you was a single young lady. Your young gentleman God knows where, and you knowing that as likely as not you never will see him again, p'raps."
"If I were not going to see him again," the girl had said tranquilly, "I should know. I should feel it. And I haven't that feeling at all, Mr. Harris. I'm one of those people who believe in presentiments. And I know I shall see him, though I don't know when."
That was the only trouble! When? When? When would she have something for her love to live on, besides just messages on lifeless paper?
Paul's letters were sometimes mere hasty scrawls. An "All's well," a darling or so, and his name on a bit of thin ruled paper torn from a note-book and scented vaguely with tobacco....
To-day it was a longer one.
"It's dated four days ago only, and it's just headed 'France,'" said young Mrs. Dampier, sitting, backed by the cottage window, with the level Berkshire landscape, flowering now into lines of white tents for the New Army in training, behind her curly head. "He says:
"'Last week I had a day, if you like! Engaged with two Taubes in the morning. Machine hit in four places. In the afternoon, as I was up reconnoitring, I saw below me a railway train, immensely long, going along as slow as a slug, with two engines. Sent in my report to Head Quarters, and wasn't believed, if you please. They said there couldn't be a train there. Line was destroyed. However, they did condescend to go and look. Afterwards I was told my report was of the greatest value——'
"There! Think of that," broke off Gwenna, with shining eyes.