“But how about the draft?”
“Went down to Washington to start things going to fix that. Redge gave me letters. Looks as if there won’t be much trouble. You see, the Government needs the writers—public sentiment, you know.”
It wasn’t that Pidge didn’t think of things to say on this point of making public sentiment, but a great gray ennui was over her. She had said enough about his faults.
“You know, I’ve been smothering in Harrow Street—had to get away,” he added.
“Yes, I know, Rufe.” After a time, she said, “I think it’s a good thing.”
“That’s the way to look at it, Pan,” he said in a relieved voice, and confided: “I need the experience, too, you know, because I’ve never been to Europe——”
It was out before she thought: “But how did you get to the Tunisian sands?”
“I mean I’ve never stayed long enough to look around. Of course, I’ve passed through.”
He grouched for the rest of the evening, but she felt worse about this than he did. She had thought she was through nailing him like that. It had done no good, merely an additional breaking out of her abysmal temper.... On the night before he left, Rufe was at his best—the playboy she loved so much; and, of course, she was pressed harder and harder into the realms of the Arctic Princess, which was by no means her natural habitat. At last, he had her crying, which was something, because it hadn’t happened often.
“Going to miss your Rufie,” he whispered, “sorry he’s going away?”