“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. We’ve deserted the posts in which we found ourselves, cut our duties, exposed ourselves to risks that may destroy any sort of social usefulness in us. It isn’t just one among a number of important things; for her it is the important thing, and until she knows far more than I know of the facts of life, how is she to undertake it? So please; if you will, forget that you wrote that letter, and forgive this answer. Probably she was married years ago and is now merely on the way to her husband's house. I felt as though I had bandaged eyes. ” She stopped.
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