"You will go into Parliament, I suppose, when you come back from the war?" she remarked at last. "If you have dreams they should become realities…."
"That is what I intend to do. The war may last a long time though—but it ought to teach one something, and England will be a vastly different place after it, and perhaps the younger men who have fought may have a greater chance."
"You have pet theories, of course."
"I suppose so—I believe that the first great step will be to give the people better homes—the housing question is what I am going to devote my energy to. I am sure it is the root of nearly every evil. Every man and woman who works should have the right to a good home. I have two supreme interests—that is one, and the other is elimination of the wastrels and the unfit. I am quite ruthless, perhaps, you will think. But there is such a sickening lot of mawkish sentiment mixed up with nearly every scheme to benefit workers. I agree with Stépan who always preaches: Get down to the commonsense point of view about a thing. Prune the convention and religion and sentimentality first and then you can judge."
Amaryllis thought for a moment; her eyes became wide and dreamy, and her charmingly set head was a little thrown back. Denzil took in the line of her white throat and the curve of her chin—it was not weak. Why was it that women with the possibilities of this one always seemed to be some other man's property! He had never come across such charm in girls. Or was it that marriage developed charm?
They neither of them spoke for a minute or two, each busy with speculation.
"I want to do something," Amaryllis said at last, "not, only just make shirts and socks," and then the pink flushed her cheeks again suddenly as she remembered that she would not be fit for more strenuous work for quite a long time—and then the war would be over, of course.
Denzil thought the same thing without the last qualification. He was under no delusions as to the speedy end of strife.
He could not help visioning the wonderful interest the hope of a son would be to him if she really were his wife—how filled with supreme sympathy and tenderness would be the months coming on. How they would talk together about their wishes and the mystery and the glory of the evolution of life. And here she had blushed at some thought concerning it, and no words must pass between them about this sacred thing. He longed to ask her many questions—and then a pang of jealousy shook him. She would confide to John, not to him, all the emotions aroused by the thought of the child—then. He wondered what she would do in the winter all alone. Had she relations she was fond of? He wished that she knew his Mother, who was the kindest sweetest lady in the world. He said aloud:
"I would like you to meet my Mother. She is going to be at Bath for a month. She is almost an invalid with rheumatism in her ankle where she broke it five years ago. I believe you would get on."