"Of course not seeing her or hearing from her—why—you see—but when I do see her it will all come right back. I know that."
He smiled a little grimly. "Normally," he said, "there are years of pleasant living before you. But not if you get yourself killed—not if you lose an arm or a leg, or come back with half your face shot off, and your one remaining ear stone deaf from cannon fire. But anyway I'm glad the Fulton business is over. Your love has cooled and, even if Lucy's hasn't—there could never be anything between you now?"
He was speaking sarcastically. He went on in the same vein: "The year over—even if you found that Lucy was still wrapped up in you, that her happiness depended on you, you would not, of course, feel that you were under any obligation to pretend that you still cared for her and to do a gentleman's best to make her happy."
"I get your point, father," I said; "and of course if she still cares, I must try to make good. Of course I must."
"Suppose," he said, no longer sarcastically, but very earnestly, "suppose the year is up. Suppose Lucy still cares, and as a reward for her faithfulness and her patience there is nothing but your grave 'somewhere in France'? This is why I asked you if you could go."
"I'll look like a fool," I said. "I've told several people that I was surely going."
"That's too bad," he said; "but you'll have to stand it. You have a good reputation for physical pluck, though, and nobody will say anything very nasty. And as for us," his voice rang a little, "who are on the inside, we know that it is braver of you to stay than to go."
"Anyway," I said, "if she—if Lucy—doesn't care any more—why I can go then."
"You can go then. But it seems to me that a man of education is wasted in a trench. That, however, is a matter of taste."