"Yes."
"Martin, dear. Isn't that rather foolish?" "Of course it's foolish. I know that But I can't help it — There it is."
"You met her," Ruth pointed out dispassionately, "for just one evening."
"Long enough, thanks."
"And you haven't seen her for… how long?"
The other's reply was immediate, almost mechanical. "Three years. One month. And four — no, five days. I'll tick off the calendar this morning."
"Oh, Martini" The piano-keys jangled.
"I've admitted it's foolish. But how many things, the closest things, are governed by reason? Answer me that"
"You were both in uniform," Ruth persisted gently. "It was in that scramble and hectic whirl just after D-Day. You don't know anything about her, except that she wore a Wren's uniform. You don't even know her name, except the first and she admitted that was a nickname."
It was as though, in remonstrance, Ruth attempted to press and prod with every detail.