But Eve had made no reply. She was still regarding me with that look that I could not fathom, although I looked deep into her eyes.
"I think I could manage it," I said, feeling strangely uneasy.
"Manage what?" she asked. "Pukkie's going?"
"Heaven forbid! It was that civilian business that I meant. I think I could manage to change my condition."
"No, no. I want you here, Adam. There is no need to change, is there?" I shook my head, and Eve reached out and took my hand. "You need not change—anything."
It was as if with her love for me, she had great sorrow, and great pity; though why I was to be pitied was beyond my understanding. I do not regard myself as a proper subject for pity. But there are many things beyond my understanding. Eve will enlighten me in her own good time. And as we sat, there was another step on the grass behind us, not soft, but hasty. And Eve unclasped her fingers from mine, and turned. It was Ann, the nurse.
"What is it, Ann?" Eve said. "Where's Tidda? Gone again?"
Then Ann explained that she had but turned her back for a minute, had gone into the house for her knitting, and come right back—had run every step of the way going and coming—and Tidda had disappeared. Tidda is our daughter, aged eight. Her name is not Tidda, but Eve, as it should be. She has a propensity for running away, although I do not think that her excursions are planned. She is a true apostle of freedom, and when she observes that nobody is about, she regards it as an opportunity heaven-born, and she makes the most of it. I can hardly blame her. A girl of eight, and tied to the worthy Ann's apron strings! How should I have liked it, at the age of eight? She would sympathize with our aims in this war we have undertaken. But Eve had risen, and was about to go.
"I suppose I had better stop at Cecily's," she said, "and at every house on the road to father's. She may turn up there. Ann can stay here. I wish," she added, laughing, "that I knew some way—"
"I'll go with you."