When he had gone, Noel looked at her visitor drinking his coffee. He had been out there, too, and he was alive; with only a little limp. The visitor smiled and said:
“What were you thinking about when we came in?”
“Only the war.”
“Any news of him?”
Noel frowned, she hated to show her feelings.
“Yes! he's gone to the Front. Won't you have a cigarette?”
“Thanks. Will you?”
“I want one awfully. I think sitting still and waiting is more dreadful than anything in the world.”
“Except, knowing that others are waiting. When I was out there I used to worry horribly over my mother. She was ill at the time. The cruelest thing in war is the anxiety of people about each other—nothing touches that.”
The words exactly summed up Noel's hourly thought. He said nice things, this man with the long legs and the thin brown bumpy face!