‘Isn’t it strange—­’ her tone was thoughtful—­’how people care for poetry nowadays!  A few years ago, one never heard of people—­ordinary people—­buying poetry, new poetry—­or reading it.  But I know a shop in Manchester that’s just full of poetry—­new books and old books—­and the shop-man told me that people buy it almost more than anything.  Isn’t it funny?  What makes them do it?  Is it the war?’

Sarratt considered it, while making a smooth path for a gorgeous green beetle through the bit of turf beside him.

‘I suppose it’s the war,’ he said at last.  ’It does change fellows.  It’s easy enough to go along bluffing and fooling in ordinary times.  Most men don’t know what they think—­or what they feel—­or whether they feel anything.  But somehow—­out there—­when you see the things other fellows are doing—­when you know the things you may have to do yourself—­well——­’

‘Yes, yes—­go on!’ she said eagerly, and he went on, but reluctantly, for he had seen her shiver, and the white lids fall a moment over her eyes.

’—­It doesn’t seem unnatural—­or hypocritical—­or canting—­to talk and feel—­sometimes—­as you couldn’t talk or feel at home, with life going on just as usual.  I’ve had to censor letters, you see, darling—­and the letters some of the roughest and stupidest fellows write, you’d never believe.  And there’s no pretence in it either.  What would be the good of pretending out there?  No—­it’s just the pace life goes—­and the fire—­and the strain of it.  It’s awful—­and horrible—­and yet you wouldn’t not be there for the world.’

His voice dropped a little; he looked out with veiled eyes upon the lake chequered with the blue and white of its inverted sky.  Nelly guessed—­trembling—­at the procession of images that was passing through them; and felt for a moment strangely separated from him—­separated and desolate.

‘George, it’s dreadful now—­to be a woman!’

She spoke in a low appealing voice, pressing up against him, as though she begged the soul in him that had been momentarily unconscious of her, to come back to her.

He laughed, and the vision before his eyes broke up.

’Darling, it’s adorable now—­to be a woman!  How I shall think of you, when I’m out there!—­away from all the grime and the horror—­sitting by this lake, and looking—­as you do now.’

He drew a little further away from her, and lying on his elbows on the grass, he began to read her, as it were, from top to toe, that he might fix every detail in his mind.

’I like that little hat so much, Nelly!—­and that blue cloak is just ripping!  And what’s that you’ve got at your waist—­a silver buckle?—­yes!  I gave it you.  Mind you wear it, when I’m away, and tell me you’re wearing it—­then I can fancy it.’

‘Will you ever have time—­to think of me—­George?’

She bent towards him.

He laughed.