his nature was in the main simple.  Yet for him, as well as for so many other ‘fellows’ he knew, the war had meant a great deal of this new and puzzled thinking—­on problems of right and wrong, of ‘whence’ and ‘whither,’ of the personal value of men—­this man, or that man.  By George, war brought them out!—­these personal values.  And the general result for him, up to now,—­had he been specially lucky?—­had been a vast increase of faith in his fellow men, yes, and faith in himself, modest as he was.  He was proud to be an English soldier—­proud to the roots of his being.  His quiet patriotism had become a passion; he knew now in what he had believed.

Yes—­England for ever!  An English home after the war—­and English children.  Oh, he hoped Nelly would have children!  As he held her pressed against him, he seemed to see her in the future—­with the small things round her.  But he did not speak of it.

She meanwhile was thinking of quite other things, and presently she said in a quick, troubled voice—­

‘George!—­while you are away—­you don’t want me to do munitions?’

He laughed out.

’Munitions!  I see you at a lathe!  Dear—­I don’t think you’d earn your keep!’ And he lifted her delicate arm and tiny hand, and looked at them with scientific curiosity.  Her frail build was a constant wonder and pleasure to him.  But small as she was, there was something unusual, some prophecy, perhaps, of developments to come, in the carriage of her head, and in some of her looks.  Her education had been extremely slight, many of her ideas were still childish, and the circle from which she came had been inferior in birth and breeding to his own.  But he had soon realised on their honeymoon, in spite of her simple talk, that she was very quick—­very intelligent.

‘Because—­’ she went on, doubtfully—­’there are so many other things I could do—­quite useful things.  There’s sphagnum moss!  Everybody up here is gathering sphagnum moss—­you know—­for bandages—­upon the fells.  I daresay Bridget might help in that.  She won’t do any other sort of war-work.’

‘Why, I thought all women were doing some kind of war-work!’

’Bridget won’t.  She doesn’t want to hear about the war at all.  She’s bored with it.’

‘Bored with it!  Good heavens!’ Sarratt’s countenance clouded.  ’Darling—­that’ll be rather hard on you, if you and she are going to live together.’

Nelly lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked at him rather gravely.

’I’m afraid you don’t know much about Bridget, George.  She’s,—­well, she’s—­one of the—­oddest women you ever met.’

‘So it seems!  But why is she bored with the war?’

’Well—­you see—­it doesn’t matter to her in any way—­and she doesn’t want it to matter to her.  There’s nobody in it she cares about.’

‘Thanks!’ laughed Sarratt.  But Nelly still grave, shook her head.  ’Oh, she’s not the least like other people.  She won’t care about you, George, just because you’ve married me.  And—­’