“Can’t we—can’t we—let the war decide?”
“What do you mean, let the war decide?”
“Can’t you go away with my promise that when you return you shall have my answer—with the knowledge that you’re the first man thus far in my life—that I love you more dearly than any other man up till to-night—that the ending of the war may bring more happiness than either of us dare dream? Can’t you go away being happy and temporarily satisfied with that?”
His voice was like aching iron as he asked:
“You wish it, Madelaine?”
“I wish it—yes!”
“And—what of the ring?”
“Because you’re so far the dearest man in my life—closer than any man has yet become—I’ll keep the ring. But it must lie in white satin until I’m sure. Then when the Better World we’re fighting for has come, and you return with victory—perhaps there’ll be an Amethyst Moment when you may take this beautiful thing from its satin and place it on my finger, Gordon. And if the doubt is all washed away, that moment will be very, very sweet. That’s half a promise, Gordon. But it can’t be a full promise—yet. I must know for certain.”
“If you wish it, Madelaine. Above everything, your happiness comes first.”
She moved over so that by leaning forward she could drop her forehead on his tightly interlaced fingers. Her free tears fell upon those fingers. He unclasped them. One hand smoothed her wondrous hair. Then he bent and placed a kiss upon that hair, tenderly.