Fanny was silent for a minute, and he could see that she was looking away from him, toward the boys on the grass, and the stage, and the torches.
“I want to go on doing this, while the war lasts,” she said, “as long as I can hold out.”
“Of course you do. And I want to go on with my job. We’re both taking chances. I don’t suppose a shot will get you—but—one might get me.”
“It might get me, too. I’m going next to some of the hospitals, and they are shelled sometimes, aren’t they?”
“Sure thing. And the funny thing is, I shouldn’t want you not to go, any more than you’d want to keep me in safe places. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes!” She whispered it.
“Then,” he argued triumphantly, “doesn’t that prove that we’re fit mates? And if we just knew that we belonged to each other, wouldn’t that—oh, don’t mind my saying it that way—wouldn’t that put a lot more punch into our work?”
“It might.”
He well remembered that delicious little laugh of hers; it had never delighted him more than it did now.
“Not that yours needs any more punch,” he went on, rather deliriously, in his joy. It certainly did give zest to a man’s wooing to know that a few paces away were several hundred rivals in admiration of his choice. Not one of those fellows but would have given his eyes to be standing back here in the shadow with the girl of the scarlet feather! “Punch! I should say so. How you did put it over! And all the while I wanted to jump up and yell—‘Keep your distance—she’s mine!’”