She put on one of her nurse's uniforms and went over to the studio and sat for hours every day; an old story to her. Marcel painted her sitting in a chair with her hands folded, and all the grief of France in her face. “Sister of Mercy,” he was going to call her; and Beauty didn't have to act, because of the terror in her heart. She couldn't tell what turn the next great battle might take. She could only urge Marcel to take his time and get it perfect; she wanted him to have something he really believed in — so that he would stay a painter instead of a poilu!
X
Lanny's young dream of love died early in the month of May, and it wasn't a merry month for him. At that time the thoughts of English people on the Riviera turned to their lovely green island with its chilly breezes. Furthermore it developed that Rosemary's father had to be examined by surgeons at home; he was brought to Marseille, and from there north, and Lanny never met him.
“Darling, we shall see each other again,” said the girl. “You'll come to England, or I'll be coming here.”
“I'll wait for you — always,” said Lanny, fervently. “I want you to marry me, Rosemary.”
She looked startled. “Oh, Lanny, I don't think we can marry. I wouldn't count on that if I were you.”
The boy was startled in turn. “But why not?”
“We're much too young to think about it. I don't want to marry for a long time.”
“I can wait, Rosemary.”
“Darling, don't think about it, please. It wouldn't be fair to you.” Seeing the bewilderment in his face, she added: “It would make my parents so terribly unhappy if I were to marry outside our own sort of people.”