Mary said: ‘All my life I’ve been waiting for something.’
‘What was it, my dear?’ Stephen asked her gently.
And Mary answered: ‘I’ve been waiting for you, and it’s seemed such a dreadful long time, Stephen.’
The barely healed wound across Stephen’s cheek flushed darkly, for what could she find to answer?
‘For me?’ she stammered.
Mary nodded gravely: ‘Yes, for you. I’ve always been waiting for you; and after the war you’ll send me away.’ Then she suddenly caught hold of Stephen’s sleeve: ‘Let me come with you—don’t send me away, I want to be near you. . . . I can’t explain . . . but I only want to be near you, Stephen. Stephen—say you won’t send me away. . . .’
Stephen’s hand closed over the Croix de Guerre, but the metal of valour felt cold to her fingers; dead and cold it felt at that moment, as the courage that had set it upon her breast. She stared straight ahead of her into the sunset, trembling because of what she would answer.
Then she said very slowly: ‘After the war—no, I won’t send you away from me, Mary.’