“You haven’t heard that he is wounded?”

She straightened herself.  “No.  When?”

“Five days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I haven’t seen you.”

“I mean—­this evening.”

I reached for her hand.  “Will you forgive me, my dear Betty, for remarking that for the last twenty minutes you have done all the talking?”

“Is he badly hurt?”

She ignored my playful rejoinder.  I noted the fact.  Usually she was quick to play Beatrice to my Benedick.  Had I caught her off her guard?

I told her all that I knew.  She seated herself again on the piano-stool.

“I hope Mrs. Boyce did not think me unfeeling for not referring to it,” she said calmly.  “You will explain, won’t you?”

Marigold entered, announcing dinner.  We went into the dining-room.  All through the meal Bella, my parlour-maid, flitted about with dishes and plates, and Marigold, when he was not solemnly pouring claret, stood grim behind my chair, roasting, as usual, his posterior before a blazing fire, with soldierly devotion to duty.  Conversation fell a little flat.  The arrival of the evening newspapers, half an hour belated, created a diversion.  The war is sometimes subversive of nice table decorum.  I read out the cream of the news.  Discussion thereon lasted us until coffee and cigarettes were brought in and the servants left us to ourselves.

One of the curious little phenomena of human intercourse is the fact that now and again the outer personality of one with whom you are daily familiar suddenly strikes you afresh, thus printing, as it were, a new portrait on your mind.  At varying intervals I had received such portrait impressions of Betty, and I had stored them in my memory.  Another I received at this moment, and it is among the most delectable.  She was sitting with both elbows on the table, her palms clasped and her cheek resting on the back of the left hand.  Her face was turned towards me.  She wore a low-cut black chiffon evening dress—­the thing had mere straps over the shoulders—­an all but discarded vanity of pre-war days.  I had never before noticed what beautiful arms she had.  Perhaps in her girlhood, when I had often seen her in such exiguous finery, they had not been so shapely.  I have told you already of the softening touch of her womanhood.  An exquisite curve from arm to neck faded into the shadow of her hair.  She had a single string of pearls round her neck.  The fatigue of last week’s night duty had cast an added spirituality over her frank, sensitive face.

We had not spoken for a while.  She smiled at me.

“What are you thinking of?”

“I wasn’t thinking at all,” said I.  “I was only gratefully admiring you.”

“Why gratefully?”

“Oughtn’t one to be grateful to God for the beautiful things He gives us?”

She flushed and averted her eyes.  “You are very good to me, Majy.”