Once he checked an egotistic exposition.
“Look here,” he said, struck by a sudden qualm, “I’m always holding forth about myself—what about you?”
“There’s nothing about me. I’m just a nurse. A nurse is far too busy and remote from outside things to be anything else than a nurse.”
“But you started out as a mathematical swell at Newnham. Oh yes, you did! Men like my father don’t coach rotters—least of all women. What happened? You went in for the Tripos, of course?”
She shook her head. “No, my dear. The magic had gone out of my life. I tried Newnham for half the next term—facing the music—but it was too much for me. I broke down. I had to earn my livelihood. My original idea was teaching. I gave it up. Took to nursing instead. And now you know the whole story of my life.”
“I can’t understand anybody really bitten with mathematics giving it up.”
She smiled. “I don’t think I was really bitten. Not like you.”
Then she led him from herself to his own ambitions, on this as on other occasions. Gradually she established between them a relationship very precious. It was the aftermath of her own romance.
One day, business calling her to London, she changed into mufti, and hurried down the front steps to the car that was to take her to the station. She found Godfrey waiting by the car door.
“My word! You look topping!” he cried in blatant admiration, and she blushed with pleasure like a girl.