“Those splendid poilus,” he said; “where they stand we Americans ought to be standing, too.... God knows why we hesitate.... I can’t tell you what we think.... Some of us—don’t agree—with the Administration.”
His jaws snapped on the word; he stared out through the sunshine at the swallows, now skimming the uncut hay fields in their gusty evening flight.
“Are you really going?” she asked, at length.
“Yes. I’ll wait a little while longer to see what my country is going to do. If it doesn’t stir during the next month or two, I shall go. I think Garry will go, too.”
She nodded.
“Of course,” he remarked, “we’d prefer our own flag, Garry and I. But if it is to remain furled——” He shrugged, picked a spear of grass, and sat brooding and breaking it into tiny pieces.
“The only thing that troubles me,” he went on presently, keeping his gaze riveted on his busy fingers, “the only thing that worries me is you!”
“Me?” she exclaimed softly. And an inexplicable little thrill shot through her.
“You,” he repeated. “You worry me to death.”