“You didn’t expect me to age a great deal in four months, did you?”
He was not thinking of age. He was thinking of that other thing, wondering how she could retain that air of boyishness, that outward semblance of joyous virginity? He was astonished that she bore no mark, no scarlet letter.... To him she was lovely, glowing—the slender, daring, boyish-pure fairy prince of his dreams.
“There’s going to be war, isn’t there?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Shall you enlist?... I suppose you can have a commission for the asking.”
“I sha’n’t enlist. I wish I could.... But I’ve work to do here.”
Enlisting was a new thought, but an attractive one. He wished his duty did not lay where it was; that he might go to France and be a part of that Gehenna where, he thought, no man might remember. If a tenth of the stories of battle were true, then a man might find forgetfulness on the field of carnage.
“Your motor, of course. Tell me about it. You know I—I am interested.”
“There’s nothing to tell.... I’m waiting.”
The waiter intervened and their orders were given. Hildegarde kept up a persistent glitter of talk, leaping from topic to topic, flushed, almost panting in her eagerness to avoid the silent moment. Mrs. Roscombe eyed her quizzically and thought that very little of her skill as a match-maker was necessary here.