He hesitated, frowning. He didn’t know how to explain; didn’t, as a matter of fact, honestly wish to explain. His motive in going was purely selfish; he hoped in battle to make more of a man of himself, to glorify himself. It was the same impulse which sent him to historical books and to tremendous days of work—his earnest, priggish, sublime desire to perfect himself. He believed—like how many others!—that he would come back from the war a new man.
"I think I ought to go," he said, and was immediately ashamed of this self-righteous phrase.
Angelica, to tell the truth, was not much impressed by the war. It never stirred or moved her much at any time. She felt neither belligerent nor pacifist. She simply took it for granted. She was one of those peasant natures for whom it is quite impossible to feel either love or hate in the abstract. She could have hated with royal hatred a German who molested her, but she had no ill-will toward a German who invaded Belgium. And as for fine phrases about it, her rough and vigorous mind rejected them all. Ought to go? Why ought he to go? Just what did he expect to accomplish?
However, she didn’t say this, any more than she allowed the least hint of her great relief to show. That was the first thought that crossed her mind—how much better it would be if Eddie were away!
Mrs. Kennedy shook her head.
"It’s too bad!" she said. "Think of your poor mother!"
Eddie could find nothing to say to that.
"Suppose you should be killed?" Mrs. Kennedy went on, with a sort of severity, as if she were speaking to a person who persistently sat in a draft.
"It wouldn’t matter very much," said Eddie, with a faint smile. "Good night, Mrs. Kennedy! Be sure to take care of yourself!"
Angelica followed him out and climbed into the car beside him. Those last words of his had hurt her, had brought to her mind the thought of his loneliness, and memories of his kindnesses and of his little, oddly touching traits. She was pursued by a great remorse and a great regret.