John stroked her hair.
"I am afraid it will not be over for a long time, Amaryllis. Yes, I think we shall go out and pretty soon. You would not wish to stop me, child?"
Amaryllis looked straight in front of her.
"What is this thing in us, John, which makes us feel that—yes, we would give our nearest and dearest, even if they must be killed? When the big thing comes even into the lives which have been perhaps all frivolous like mine—it seems to make a great light. There is an exaltation, and a pity, and a glory, and a grief, but no holding back. Is that patriotism, John?"
"That is one name for it, darling."
"But it is really beyond that in this war, because we are not going to fight for England, but for right. I think that feeling that we must give is some oblation of the soul which has freed itself from the chains of the body at last. For so many years we have all been asleep."
"This is a rude awakening."
They were silent for a little while, each busy with unusual thoughts.
There was a sense of nearness between them—of understanding, new and dangerously sweet.
Amaryllis felt it deliciously, sensuously, and took joy in that she was touching him.