"Jeffery," she said, "do you know I haven't been able to make you out since you arrived here—nor Sybil either," she added, nodding toward Latham's wife, whose classic, flaxen-haired profile was turned toward them.
The man was smiling curiously.
"I didn't realize we had changed so."
"Well, you have, both of you. You talk the same and act the same—except a—a sort of reserve; something; I don't know just what.... Somehow, you, and Sybil, too, seem as though you felt strange, aloof, out of place. You used to be so absolutely—well, natural and at home with us all—"
"My word!" Latham laughed but made no further comment.
"Of course," Evelyn went on, "you've been through a lot, I can appreciate that. When I got Sybil's letter I simply wept: twenty-four hours in a muddy shell-hole; invalided for good, with an arm you can't raise above your shoulder; a horrid scar down your face...."
"It does make rather a poor face to look at, doesn't it?" Latham flushed and hurried on. "Well, I've no complaint."
She glanced at the cross on his olive-drab coat.
"Of course not! How absurd, Jeffery! But how did Sybil ever stand it? How did she live through it? I mean the parting, the months of suspense, word that you were missing, then mortally wounded?... Her brother killed by gas?"
Latham glanced at his wife, a soft light in his eyes.