'I cannot return the compliment. Much as I enjoy your society, I would much rather not see you on a battlefield.'
The girl laughed at his gravity, and then continued, in her thoughtful, analytical way:
'I cannot picture you at work—at all! What are you like?'
He shrugged his shoulders and presently answered, in a slow, indifferent way, such as most men acquire at sea, where time is of comparatively small value:
'Just like other men. Much the same as in a drawing-room. Men do not change so much as you imagine. Not so much perhaps as women. There is a lamentable monotony about us: we behave at a funeral as at a wedding.'
'Women don't do that. They overdo the smiling, and exaggerate the weeping, while between times they take note of each other's bonnets, and mentally measure the depth of crape trimmings.'
'There is more good in the world, Brenda, than you are aware of.'
'And,' said the girl, 'more courage. Excuse my returning to the subject; but it is one which is full of interest, and I think you must know something about it.'
He turned and looked at her, and in the twilight his meek eyes were as soft as any woman's—softer than Brenda's, which were habitually wistful and much too grave.
'I do,' he said simply.