Bridget informed him briefly that she was correcting some proof-sheets for a friend, and would then have an index to make.
Captain Marsworth looked at her curiously.
'May one ask what the book is?'
'It's something new about psychology,' said Bridget, calmly. 'It's going to be a great deal talked about. My friend's awfully clever.'
'Ah! Doesn't she find it a little difficult to think about psychology just now?'
'Why should she? Somebody's got to think about psychology,' was the sharp reply. 'You can't let everything go, because there's a war.'
'I see! You remind me of a man I know, who's translating Dante. He's just over military age, and there he sits in a Devonshire valley, with a pile of books. I happen to know a particular department in a public office that's a bit hustled for want of men, and I suggested that he should lend a hand. He said it was his business to keep culture going!'
'Well?' said Bridget.
The challenging obstinacy of her look daunted him. He laughed.
'You think it natural—and right—to take the war like that?'