"I might have been a nurse," she protested.
"If you had you couldn't have come in till right at the end," he returned, "and, Lord, we had quite enough amateurs at that game as it was. Though, as it happens, it crossed my mind that you would make a good nurse the first time I saw you."
"I believe I should, too," she agreed. "I hope I may be some day."
He made no comment on that though he was aware that something within him resented the thought of her ever becoming a professional nurse.
"You did go through the war, at all events," she went on, rather as if she sought an excuse for him.
"I, and about five million other men," he put in, determined to take no credit on that score.
"It makes a difference, all the same," she returned.
"To what?" he asked.
"Oh! everything comes back to the same place," she said, looking out straight in front of her. "I knew it would, when you asked to come with me. When I'm alone I'm dishonest enough to forget—deliberately. I can—generally. I lose myself in other thoughts."
"Meaning that I'm spoiling your day," he put in. "But I don't see why we should talk about—that—if you'd sooner not. I can forget too."