"We can live on our own means, small as they are, dear; and, when the war is over, I will beat my sword into a ploughshare and come out here and turn farmer."
"That is if we are successful," said his wife smiling.
"Oh, I have no fear as to that. In a month or two there will be equal rights for white man and black from the Zambesi to the Cape. But, in any case, there'll be no more fighting for me, Brenda. I shall never be the same man again."
"Who says so?" she asked quickly.
"The doctor. He says this wound will always trouble me, and that I shall never be able to stand the English winters. Here the air is balmy and the climate mild."
"In that case we'll do just as you suggest, dearest. There is nothing to keep us in England. My father is wrapped up in his politics, and my aunt and uncle care only for themselves. Yes, you are right, as you always are, Harold. When the war is over we will settle here."
"We shall never think less of dear old England because we are exiles, eh, Brenda?"
"Exiles! We shall not be exiles here. This is part of the British Empire. Wherever the map is colored red there is England. Harold, dear, do you know, I cannot get poor Wilfred out of my thoughts. In his own way he was a true hero. He gave his life for his country."
"Yes, Brenda, I agree, just as much as many another man is doing here at this moment. I cannot help feeling relieved that the mystery of Malet's death is cleared up, and I am not ashamed now that I know it was my brother who fired the shot. May such justice ever be done to traitors!"
She knelt beside the bed and took his hands soothingly in her own. "Don't talk any more about these things, dearest. They excite you. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Let the past lie buried. All I know, and all I care for, is that you are alive, and that I have you wholly to myself. We will never be parted, Harold. We may be poor in the world's goods, but we are rich indeed in love."