'Probably; but not without a good fight for it. It will not be such an easy matter as the Russians imagine.'
'Where will you be?' asked the persistent lady. 'At Constantinople or...'
'At the front!' said Trist.
The widow turned aside and looked out of the window. Across the moor, on the edge of the cliff, a coastguardsman was pacing backwards and forwards with a measured tread acquired at sea, and from the window they watched him in a mechanical, semi-interested way.
'Do you know,' said Mrs. Wylie at length, in a half-shamefaced way, 'I believe I am beginning to lose my nerve. Is it a foretaste of approaching old age? I really believe I am going to be anxious about you.'
Her semi-bantering tone justified Trist's easy laugh. He took it for granted that Mrs. Wylie was not speaking seriously.
'You must not allow yourself,' he expostulated, 'to get into bad habits of that sort.'
'Still,' argued the widow in the same tone, 'I do not see why you should be free from the restraining and salutary feeling that there is someone waiting for you at home.'
It was hard to tell whether Mrs. Wylie meant more than the mere words conveyed or no. Trist seemed to hesitate before replying.
'I am never free from that—but it is not necessary; my foolhardy days are over.'