“What's the matter?” she cried sharply.
“Rosaline,” Andrews said in a low, soft voice, “I can only think of going to Paris.”
“Oh, the Paris woman,” said Rosaline scornfully. “But what does that matter? She isn't here now.”
“I don't know.... Perhaps I shall never see her again anyway,” said Andrews.
“You're a fool. You must amuse yourself when you can in this life. And you a deserter.... Why, they may catch you and shoot you any time.”
“Oh, I know, you're right. You're right. But I'm not made like that, that's all.”
“She must be very good to you, your little Paris girl.”
“I've never touched her.”
Rosaline threw her head back and laughed raspingly.
“But you aren't sick, are you?” she cried.