“It’s not the influenza. It’s the war. It’s the strain—the sitting still——” she broke off.
“From her letters you’d say she was flourishing. I didn’t realize——” He hesitated a moment. Then—“I say—you might send me a line sometimes—on your own——”
He did not see her nod. Expecting an answer, he glanced up enquiringly to catch a look on her face that set him thinking. When he spoke again his tone had altered—Mrs. Cloud had dropped out of sight.
“Will you? Don’t forget. One likes getting letters out there.”
She flushed a sudden scarlet.
“I will. Of course I will. I would have before—if I’d thought—if I’d dreamed you wanted—if you’d said——” She tangled herself into silence. But it was a silence that was not pause but preparation, preliminary, the recession of the sea between wave and wave. Here was her chance.... For this she had prayed.... He was giving her her chance!... She would take it.... She would not be cowardly, nor falsely ashamed.... She would take her chance....
“Justin—I did write. I tried to write to you. I tore it up. I thought you’d never listen. I wanted to explain—about that wicked thing I did. Justin—I wanted to say—I want to say——” She paused. Her face was burning. Her lips were dry. The shaping of words was difficult. She found herself looking to him for help.
He, too, had coloured; but his eyes were kind. He uttered incredible words—
“It’s all right, Laura. Don’t worry.”
She could not comprehend. She stumbled on again.