A young girl, she had said; and she could think without "minding" it in the least, that the best thing this lad of twenty-two could do would be to fall in love with a young girl. She had thought so several times lately. It was odd, however, that she always thought of this solution as "a" young girl, not any particular one. Not little Olwen Howel-Jones, for instance; oh, no! Nor her (Mrs. Cartwright's) young niece Stella, not any of the Mabels or Ethels or Dorothys that she knew at home, and to whom she might have introduced the boy. None of these could she think of for one instant in connection with Jack Awdas. Yet, one of these days, some lucky girl must be responsible for the happiness of all his days (not just of one glamorous afternoon in the forest) and all his nights (not just of one night when the power of darkness had been kept at bay, and when he had fallen at last asleep "as one whom his mother comforteth"). Yes, later on, there must be "a" young girl for him....
He stopped by the cannon.
"Don't go in. Just a little minute," he coaxed, softly. "I can't talk to you in there."
"It's no use talking," murmured Mrs. Cartwright.
But she did pause.
And, as he sat down on the body of that obsolete gun, and then, unfastening his thick coat, spread a flap of it out, she did yield so far as to sit down, in her pale wrap, on that corner of his coat beside him.
He leant an arm on the cannon behind her. Both looked in silence over the lagoon, towards the reef.
White, red; white, red—flashed the warning light.
She felt herself at the beginning of a conflict that must tear her this way and that; but his mind was single and set. He was just blind, obstinate, and keen.
He said, "I told you that night when you sat up with me what I thought of girls. I don't want 'em. I want you, and you're all I want; or ever shall. I can swear to that. Oh, I know myself! I can swear to it."