"You know."
"Yes…. But it won't do. We must carry on, you and I."
"If you—knew—"
"I do know! When these crises come try to fix your mind on what you have become."
"Yes…. A hell of a soldier. Do you really believe that my country needs a thing like me?" She stood looking at him in silence—knowing that he was in a torment of some terrible sort. His eyes were still covered by his arm. On his boyish brow the blonde-brown hair had become damp.
She went across and passed her arm through his. His hand rested, fell to his side, but he suffered her to guide him through the corridors toward a far bluish spark that seemed as distant as Venus, the star.
They walked very slowly for a while on deck, encountering now and then the shadowy forms of officers and crew. The personnel of the several hospital units in transit were long ago in bed below.
Once he said: "You know, Miss Erith, it is not I who behaves like a scoundrel to you."
"I know," she said with a dauntless smile.
"Because," he went on, searching painfully for thought as well as words, "I'm not really a brute—was not always a blackguard—"