“Yes.”

But it was funny to talk about it.  About romance and danger.  It made her hot and shy.  She supposed that was because she couldn’t take things in.  Her fatheadedness.  It was easy not to say things if you didn’t feel them.  The more John felt them the more he had to say them.  Besides, he never said them to anybody but her.  It was really saying them to himself, a quiet, secret thinking.

He stood close, close in front of her, tall and strong and handsome in his tunic, knee breeches and puttees.  She could feel the vibration of his intense, ardent life, of his excitement.  And suddenly, before his young manhood, she had it again, the old feeling, shooting up and running over her, swamping her brain.  She wondered with a sort of terror whether he would see it in her face, whether if she spoke he would hear it thickening her throat.  He would loathe her if he knew.  She would loathe herself if she thought she was going into the war because of that, because of him.  Women did.  She remembered Gibson Herbert.  Glasgow....  But this was different.  The sea was in it, magic was in it and romance.  And if she had to choose between John and her wounded it should not be John.  She had sworn that before they started.  Standing there close beside him she swore again, secretly to herself, that it should not be John.

John glanced at Sutton as he passed them.

“I’d give my soul to be a surgeon,” he said.  “That’s what I wanted.”

“You wanted to be a soldier.”

“It would have been the next best thing....  Did you notice in the lists the number of Army Medical men killed and missing?  Out of all proportion.  That means that they’re as much exposed as the combatants.  More, really....

“...  Jeanne—­do you realise that if we’ve any luck, any luck at all, we shall take the same risks?”

“It’s all very well for us.  If it was only being killed—­But there’s killing.”

“Of course there’s killing.  If a man’s willing to be killed he’s jolly well earned his right to kill.  It’s the same for the other johnnie.  If your life doesn’t matter a hang, his doesn’t either.  He’s got his feeling.  He’s got his romance.  If he hasn’t—­”

“Yes—­if he hasn’t?”

“He’s better dead.”

“Oh no; he might simply go slogging on without feeling anything, from a sense of duty.  That would be beautiful; it would be the most beautiful thing.”

“There you are, then.  His duty’s his romance.  You can’t get away from it.”

“No.”

But she thought:  Supposing he went, loathing it, shivering, sick?  Frightened.  Well, of course it would be there too, simply because he went; only you would feel it, not he.

Supposing he didn’t go, supposing he stuck, and had to be pushed on, by bayonets, from behind?  It didn’t bear thinking of.

John hadn’t thought of it.  He wouldn’t.  He couldn’t see that some people were like that.