She raised her fingers to her forehead and let them linger there thoughtfully. She sighed, straightened, spoke.
"I'm no longer a sentimental girl, but the admiration has survived, grown, George. Never forget that."
"And the kindness?" he asked.
"Of course," she said. "Why should that ever go?"
But he shook his head.
"All the kindness must be for Lambert. You wouldn't give by halves. When, Betty?"
"Let us walk back. I've left him an extraordinarily long time."
"When?" he repeated.
"I don't know," she answered. "After the war, if he comes home. Of course, he wants it before. Lambert hurries one so."
"It's the war," he said, gravely, "that hurries one."