“I know.”
They walked in silence, after these few words, for a full block. Black held the umbrella low—it was a large umbrella, and sheltered them both very well. He had offered Jane his arm—it is difficult for two people to keep sufficiently close together under an umbrella not to get wet unless one takes the other’s arm. She had not taken it, but she had gripped a fold of cloth on the under part of his sleeve, and this held her securely in place. He could just feel that slightest of contacts, and it gave him an odd sense of comradeship.
The silence was grateful to them both, as silence may be between two people each of whom understands a good deal of what the other is thinking. When Jane broke it, at the end of the second block, it was with an unconscious security that she could go on from where she had left off, without explaining the gap.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, in a tense voice. “I knew that, when I took the part, or I couldn’t have dared to take it.”
“I knew you must be feeling that way. I understand. So am I.”
She looked up quickly. “Oh! Shall you go?”
“Of course.”
“At once?”
“I am in a sense bound to my church—until my first year here is up, at least. It will be up in April. If war isn’t declared by that time I shall go, whether the church is willing to send me or not.”
“I can’t wait,” said Jane, “till America is in, unless she is in before I can get away. Cary can’t, either. He is going to try to get a berth at once, as correspondent for his old paper. He has sent them this play—it ought to show them that he is—at work again and that—his brain is clear. He’s physically pretty fit now, I think.”