'He meant so much to you?' I asked, and my voice came strangely to my lips.
She nodded. 'So much,' she said. Then she looked away to the mountains again. 'So much — so long ago.' She was silent for a moment, her hand still holding mine. 'Six weeks,' she whispered, as though to herself. 'That's all we had. Then he was gone.'
'But you saw him later — after the war?' I said 'Yes. For a week. That was all.' She turned to me. 'Bill. What makes a man throw love away for — for something a woman can't understand? You, for instance. Have you ever been in love?'
'Many times,' I answered.
'But not really. Not so that it was more important than anything else?'
'No,' I said.
Her hand suddenly tightened on mine so that I could feel her nails biting into my palm. 'Why?' she cried softly. 'Why? Tell me why? What was there more important?'
I didn't know how to answer her. 'Excitement,' I said. 'The excitement of living, of pitting one's wits against everyone else.'
'Meaning a wife is an encumbrance?'
I nodded. 'For some men — yes.'