He spoke with a kind of repressed passion—she looked up at him wonderingly and timidly. He met her sweet eyes, and his stern young face relaxed.
“Yes, dear!” he said. “It’s wickedness that has brought the war on us—wickedness in men, wickedness in women. The Supreme Being is tired of looking at the muck-heaps. He wants a clean world. And we’ve all got to help Him clean it!—with our blood and our lives!”
Timidly she put out her hand and touched his. He caught it and held it in a warm, kind grasp.
“I shan’t be sent out to France yet,” he went on. “I’ve got to be drilled into shape. And I mean to see you as often as I can before I go. Do you mind?”
“Mind? Why, of course not! I shall want to see you as much as you want to see me!”
Jack smiled.
“Oh, no, you won’t!” he said. “Though it’s nice of you to say it. But you can’t really!—because you see I’m in love with you, and you’re not in love with me!”
“I’m not in love with any one,” she murmured. “I don’t know how it is—”
“I know!” and Jack nodded his head sagaciously: “You can’t make up your mind as to whether a man’s company for life would be possible of endurance! I don’t blame you for the doubt—not a bit! But, if you are hesitating I can tell you you’d have a cheerier time of it with me than with your crusty old Philosopher!”