“You will go back?”
“Of course.”
Suddenly a recollection smote me.
“My dear Anne, don’t mind me to-night. I dare say I’m unjust, but I’m living in another world, and this shocks me—the incomprehension of it all! Are these really men and women, and do they think war is a vaudeville show? Yes, I am out of temper; but if you’d heard the questions I’ve been asked! I beg your pardon. You were very good to write me all the time: it meant a lot, too.”
She looked up, so happily, that I began to reproach myself for my boorishness.
“What is it you don’t like in me?”
“I should like to see you—you and Molly—in the blue and white of the Red Cross, with big square hob-nailed boots, splashing around in the mud and rain, with smirches on your dainty noses!”
I had hurt her, despite my assumed levity, and I knew it. Some one came up to claim a dance, and she rose quickly, both of us glad of the interruption. The rest of the evening I spent with Mr. Brinsmade, discussing politics. Now that I write it, I am sorry that I acted as I did. Yet I am at a loss to know why.