"What does your friend, Dr. Strong, have to say about the general run of such cases?"
"I don't know. I have not seen Dr. Strong since the war ended."
He looked mildly surprised. "Hasn't he been home since the war?"
"I believe so. I was away at the time."
"How long was he in France?"
"He went over first in 1916 and again in the fall of 1917, and remained till the end of the war. His mother is here with me, you know."
"Yes, I know. By Jove, I envy him one thing,—lucky dog." She remained silent. "You were playmates, weren't you?"
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin slightly.
"Well, that's why I envy him. To have been your playmate,—Why, I envy him every minute of his boyhood. When I think of my own boyhood and how little there was to it that a real boy should have, I—I—confound it, I almost find myself hating chaps like Strong, chaps who lived in the country and had regular pals, and girl sweethearts, and went fishing and hunting, and played hookey as it ought to be played, and grew up with something fine and sweet and wholesome to look back upon,—and to have had you for a playmate,—maybe a sweetheart,—you in short frocks, with your hair in pigtails, barefooted in summertime, running—"
She interrupted him. "Your imagination is at fault there, Mr. Thane," she said, smiling once more. "I never went barefooted in my life."