"Is that you, Hector?"
Her voice was startlingly distinct.
"Yes, Frances."
They began to talk—at first in broken, uneasy sentences—later settling down into their customary ease. After a time, he slowly swung to the personal. She knew that he was paving the way to the vital matter and she helped him cleverly.
Now, haltingly but indomitably, he began. He was very close to her but staring into the darkness before him. She could see his face in firm silhouette against the moonlight sky.
"All my life"—he was saying—"I'd been in a military atmosphere, with soldiers and sailors all round me. The thing was in my blood. You can't understand—well, perhaps, you can, because your father was a soldier, too. But you're a woman. Only men, I think, can feel the—I suppose I mean the fascination of it, though that isn't just the word I want. And even men can't understand it, unless they're born in it, too. It's a wonderful thing, reserved for Service families. Besides, I'd been encouraged. I was to have a Commission and be a soldier. That's what I was told. So, when I was a baby, even, I was dreaming of some day being an officer and—well, I admit it—a great man."
"Go on," she said; his quiet voice holding her.
"Well, my father's death seemed to smash all that. I was a youngster and it broke my heart. However, I plucked up courage at last—and began to look out for a chance. I was determined I was going to be a soldier, anyway, and if necessary I'd work my way up to a Commission. I hung on to my dreams."
"Poor little Hector!" she murmured.
His words conjured up a pathetic picture. She touched his hand sympathetically. He went on.