“That was certainly a big dirigible,” he ventured. “There are bigger Zeps, of course.”
“Are there really?”
“Oh, yes. But they’re not much good in war, I believe.”
She turned her trim, small head and looked out across the bay; and Shotwell, who once had had a gaily receptive eye for pulchritude, thought her unusually pretty.
Also, the steady keel of the Elsinore was making him feel more human now; and he ventured a further polite observation concerning the pleasures of homecoming after extended exile.
She turned with a frank shake of her head: “It seems heartless to say so, but I’m rather sorry I’m back,” she said.
He smiled: “I must admit,” he confessed, “that I feel the same way. Of course I want to see my people. But I’d give anything to be in France at this moment, and that’s the truth!”
The girl nodded her comprehension: “It’s quite natural,” she remarked. “One does not wish to come home until this thing is settled.”
“That’s it exactly. It’s like leaving an interesting play half finished. It’s worse––it’s like leaving an absorbing 32 drama in which you yourself are playing an exciting rôle.”
She glanced at him––a quick glance of intelligent appraisal.