“Does this mean—our last meeting—before you go to France?” Madelaine groped for the seat behind her and her knees wilted.
“By this time to-morrow night, I’ll be dodging submarines. Ho for a life on the bounding main!” The man’s tone affected a lightness that was ghastly.
Madelaine’s throat was cruelly dry as she appraised his fine figure. His outfit was so new it seemed as though he were only playing at war. He was so clean-shaven his cheeks were blue. His hair was close-cropped. His mouth was firm. His eye was straight and true. He was a man!
“It’s come so quickly! I’m all unprepared—to say good-by—to-night, Gordon, dear!”
“It’s all in the business—the dirty business of wiping the earth clean of Huns. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about ourselves. Let’s talk about—you!”
Madelaine closed her eyes. Her head was light. In her heart was an ache like an ulcer. Then all the nights she had ever lived had narrowed down to this! Gordon was going away and might never come back. Did that ache in her heart mean that at last she knew she loved him? Had she discovered in the past two weeks what it meant for a woman to send a man to war?
“Gordon—it seems—it seems—as if all I’d like to do would be to sit quietly and—say nothing!”
Gordon leaned forward with elbows on his knees. He studied his hands for a moment,—lithe, patrician hands. Very quietly he said:
“I’d like to take that to mean that you care, Madge. A little bit!”
Madelaine pressed her hands against her eyes.