“I don’t know.... I think so sometimes.... We women, who are born capable of motherhood, seem to be fashioned also to realise Christ more clearly––and the holy mother who bore him.... I don’t know if that’s the reason––or if, truly, in us a little flame burns more constantly––the passion which instinctively flames more brightly toward things of the spirit than of the flesh.... I think it is true, Mr. Estridge, that, unless taught otherwise by men, women’s inclination is toward the spiritual, and the ardour of her passion aspires instinctively to a greater love until the lesser confuses and perplexes her with its clamorous importunity.”
“Woman’s love for man you call the lesser love?” he asked.
“Yes, it is, compared to love for God,” she said dreamily.
Some of the girl-soldiers in the Battalion of Death turned their heads to look at this young girl in furs, who had come among them on the arm of a Red Cross driver.
Estridge was aware of many bib brown eyes, many grey eyes, some blue ones fixed on him and on his companion in friendly or curious inquiry. They made him think of the large, innocent eyes of deer or channel cattle, for there was something both sweet and wild as well as honest in the gaze of these girl-soldiers.
One, a magnificent blond six-foot creature with the peaches-and-cream skin of Scandinavia and the clipped xviii gold hair of the northland, smiled at Miss Dumont, displaying a set of superb teeth.
“You have come to see us make our first charge?” she asked in Russian, her sea-blue eyes all a-sparkle.
Miss Dumont said “Yes,” very seriously, looking at the girl’s equipment, her blanket roll, gas-mask, boots and overcoat.
Estridge turned to another girl-soldier:
“And if you are made a prisoner?” he enquired in a low voice. “Have you women considered that?”