“Yes.”
She could not repress a sigh of relief, but he did not so interpret it. Mary had withdrawn to the window, and her mother had left the room; they two might as well have been alone.
“My God, how I shall miss you!” cried the young fellow at last, desperately. “You see I never loved a woman before, and so I know not how to bear this parting.”
“You are a soldier,” she said gently. “A soldier endures any pain manfully.”
“Yes, but no sword thrust ever hurt like this. You are glad you have met me?”
“Very glad.”
“And you will miss me and think of me sometimes?”
“Many times.”
“And when the war is over, I may come back and—and claim your love?”
He had taken her hand, and she could not at once draw it away, for a strange hesitation was upon her. “I cannot promise,” she said at last. “Ten days ago I did not know you.”