Hugh Ralton nodded gravely, and his eyes suddenly rested on the wedding-ring she wore.
"And you?" he asked. "Are you one too?"
"I don't quite follow," she said, slowly. "My husband was killed on the Somme, as a matter of fact."
"Ah!" The man's voice seemed studiously non-committal. "That makes it all the more important, doesn't it, that you should keep the flag flying ... and fight?"
"What makes you think I'm not?" she demanded, staring at him defiantly. "And anyway, it's no..."
"Business of mine." He concluded the half-finished sentence with a slight smile. "I know it isn't. Will you forgive me? Somehow I thought that you would understand." He took two or three steps towards her. "Somehow I think you do understand.... Don't you?"
The girl made no answer, but only stared with troubled eyes over the sea to where the low-lying spit of land which flanked Portsdown on the south merged into the grey mist. It all seemed so grey ... grey and lifeless.
Then she heard him speaking again. "Which bunker did you say the ball was in?"
"That one." Without turning her head, she pointed it out, and with a quick sideways look at her averted face, Hugh Ralton walked past her and retrieved his ball.
"Would you care for a game to-morrow?" He was standing close behind her, and after a short pause she swung round and looked at him.