"What did you mean," she asked, quietly, "about it being all the more important to go on fighting?"
"One doesn't want two people killed with the same bullet, that's all," he answered. "It makes the damned Boche so pleased."
"Is that the only reason?" She was looking at him anxiously, her hands thrust in the pockets of her jersey.
"Why, no," Ralton said, gravely. "One always starts off with the lesser reason. The real, important thing is that you shouldn't hurt the first casualty."
"And you think he would know?"
"Wouldn't you hate it if he didn't?"
The girl moved a little restlessly. "I don't know," she said at length. "I can't make up my mind. Sometimes I think it would be hell if he didn't: more often I think it would be hell if he did."
Almost unconsciously they had commenced to stroll back side by side towards the tenth tee.
"Do you think it's been worth while?" she asked him, suddenly.
Ralton carefully teed up his ball, and with a full clean swing drove it over the sandy hummock in front of him.