Chesterton bent his head and kissed the tips of her fingers. After a moment he said: “Would you know what night it was? It might be curious if I had been—”
“Would I know!” cried the girl. “It was eight days ago. The night of the twelfth. An awful night!”
“The twelfth!” exclaimed Chesterton, and laughed and then begged her pardon humbly. “I laughed because the twelfth,” he exclaimed, “was the night peace was declared. The war was over. I’m sorry, but THAT night I was riding toward you, thinking only of you. I was never for a moment in danger.”