"No, no, Meg!" he cried. "Not Freddy! Anybody but Freddy!" His words were a cry of horror, of anguish. In the surprise and excitement of their meeting, he had forgotten to ask for Freddy. Even though he was in his soldier's uniform, his happiness had obliterated the war. He had the true soldier's temperament—a fighter while fighting had to be done, a lover of pleasure in peace-time.
"Yes," she said, "Freddy. He was only in Flanders a few weeks."
Michael put his arms round her tenderly, protectingly. "You poor little girl, you brave little woman!"
Margaret loved his anguish, his complete understanding of the fact that of all people it was Freddy who should have been spared.
"If you had only seen him, Mike! He was so young, so fair. And he never had a chance."
Michael's eyes questioned her words.
"He was just sniped at the very beginning. That was the hardest part of it—to know that all his talents and intellect had been wasted!"
Michael held her closer. "Not wasted, dearest, don't say that."
"I didn't exactly mean wasted. But he could have done such great things for the world; he could surely have been given work more worthy of his abilities!"
"He is doing wonderful things now, Meg, he's hard at work. Freddy just got his promotion—look at it that way." He kissed her trembling lips; tears were flooding her glorious eyes.