Denis was fighting, and she wanted news; oh! she did want news so badly! Tears came hot in her eyes; she turned over and buried her face in the grass, struggling with the sudden pain. Denis was fighting; any one of these blue days he might be dying; he might be already dead. And he hadn't forgiven her. Oh! she, with this vulture at her heart, how could she sit quiet, brood on still anger, like Lettice? She must be white-washing the kitchen, or helping wounded Germans, or exciting herself over stranded French aeroplanes twenty miles away—anything, anything to get away from her thoughts!
"There's a man in the wood," observed Lettice.
She had dropped her work and sat immobile, her intent gaze probing the shadows of the distant trees. Dorothea with an impatient sigh rolled over and sat up too.
"Where?"
"There, under that fir-tree—don't you see him? Now he, he, he's stooping down behind the bush."
"What eyes you have, Lettice!" said Dorothea, screwing up her own. "I can't see any old thing!"
"I've been watching him for some time. I think he's hiding."
"Hiding?"
"He was there before you came back, and then he got down out of sight. I don't think he can get away. I think he's hurt."
"Hurt?" Dorothea repeated wonderingly.