“Wouldn't it”—he spoke with a sudden gentleness, the gentleness of the surgeon handling a torn limb—“wouldn't it help to straighten things out with Sara?”
“If it did, it would only make matters worse. No. Take it from me, Herrick, that soldiering is the one thing of all others I can't do.”
He turned away as though to signify that the discussion was at an end.
“I don't see it,” persisted Miles. “On the contrary, it's the one thing that might make her believe in you. In spite of that Indian Frontier business.”
Garth swung suddenly round, a dull, dangerous gleam in his eyes. But Miles bore the savage glance serenely. He had applied the spur with intention. The other was suffering—suffering intolerably—in a dumb silence that shut him in alone with his agony. That silence must be broken, no matter what the means.
“You'd wipe out the stigma of cowardice, if you volunteered,” he went on deliberately.
Garth laughed derisively.
“Cut it out, Herrick,” he flung back. “I'm not a damned story-book hero, out for whitewash and the V.C.”
But Miles continued undeterred.
“And you'd convince Sara,” he finished quietly.