"I love you, Mike," she said shyly. "Is that enough?"
"It's all I want," he said, while Meg wound her arms round his neck and drew his face nearer hers to receive her kiss. As she nestled against him, he said tenderly, "Remember, I'm verminous; I'm not fit to touch, dearest."
"I don't care! I don't mind if I get covered with them," she laughed. "And I don't care if all the world sees me kissing you! I just love you, Mike, and you're here—nothing in all the world matters except that!"
She unclasped her hands. Her weeping face was pressed to his rough uniform; horrible as it was, she was kissing it tenderly, almost devoutly, stroking it with her fingers. It gave her a sense of pride and assurance that he was there beside her.
In the beautiful way known to love and youth, the foolish things they said and left unsaid told them whispers of the wonderful things which were to be. Michael was too exacting in his demands to allow of sustained conversation; sentences lost themselves in "one more kiss," or in one more bewildering meeting of happy eyes.
At last Michael said—not without a feeling of nervousness, for he had asked few questions, and the scraps of information which Margaret had volunteered he had so often interrupted by his own impetuous demands, that she had accepted the fact that all explanations and questioning must wait until the excitement of their meeting had abated—"Why did Freddy not answer my letters? Why did you leave Egypt without one word?"
His voice expressed the fact that his letters had contained the full explanation of his conduct. It also said, "Why this forgiveness, if you were so unkind?"
It brought a strange revelation to Margaret of the ravages of war, of the changes which it had made in their lives. She remained lost in thought.
"Will Freddy consent? Will he understand, as you do?"
Margaret shivered. Her hand left Michael's; her fingers touched the band of crêpe which she was wearing on her uniform coat-sleeve.