Miss Sharp looked down suddenly—she had her head turned towards the window.
"There are many splendid women in France—but you don't see them—the poor are too wonderful, they lose their nearest and dearest and never complain, they only say it is 'la Guerre!'."
"Have you any near relations fighting?"—
"Yes"—
It was too stupid having to drag information out of her like this—I gave it up—and then I was haunted by the desire to know what relations they were?—If she has a father he must be at least fifty—and he must be in the English Army—why then does she seem so poor?—It can't be a brother—her's is only thirteen—would a cousin count as a near relation?—or—can she have a fiancé—?!
The sudden idea of this caused me a nasty twinge—But no, her third finger has no ring on it.—I grew calmer again—.
"I feel you have a hundred thousand interesting things to say if you would only talk!" I blurted out at last.
"I am not here to talk, Sir Nicholas—I am here to do your typing."
"Does that make a complete barrier?—Won't you be friends with me?"
Burton came into the room at that moment—and while he was there she slipped off to her typing without answering me. Burton has arranged a place for her in his room, which is next to mine, so that I shall not be disturbed by the noise of her machine clicking.