She turned her head away again at this, for though it sounded lovely it made her feel a little shy and unprovided with an answer; and then he said, again tumultuously, that her ear was the most perfect thing ever stuck on a girl’s cheek, and would she mind turning her face to him so that he might see if she had another just like it on the other side.

She blushed at this, because she couldn’t remember whether she had washed it lately or not—­one so easily forgot one’s ears; there were so many different things to wash—­and he told her that when she blushed it was like the first wild rose of the first summer morning of the world.

At this Anna-Felicitas was quite overcome, and subsided into a condition of blissful, quiescent waiting for whatever might come next.  Fancy her face reminding him of all those nice things.  She had seen it every day for years and years in the looking-glass, and not noticed anything particular about it.  It had seemed to her just a face.  Something you saw out of, and ate with, and had to clean whatever else you didn’t when you were late for breakfast, because there it was and couldn’t be hidden,—­an object remote indeed from pansies, and stars, and beautiful things like that.

She would have liked to explain this to the young man, and point out that she feared his imagination ran ahead of the facts and that perhaps when his leg was well again he would see things more as they were, but to her surprise when she turned to him to tell him this she found she was obliged to look away at once again.  She couldn’t look at him.  Fancy that now, thought Anna-Felicitas, attentively gazing at her toes.  And he had such dear eyes; and such a dear, eager sort of face.  All the more, then, she reasoned, should her own eyes have dwelt with pleasure on him.  But they couldn’t.  “Dear me,” she murmured, watching her toes as carefully as if they might at any moment go away and leave her there.

“I know,” said Elliott.  “You think I’m talking fearful flowery stuff.  I’d have said Dear me at myself three years ago if I had ever caught myself thinking in terms of stars and roses.  But it’s all the beastly blood and muck of the war that does it,—­sends one back with a rush to things like that.  Makes one shameless.  Why, I’d talk to you about God now without turning a hair.  Nothing would have induced me so much as to mention seriously that I’d even heard of him three years ago.  Why, I write poetry now.  We all write poetry.  And nobody would mind now being seen saying their prayers.  Why, if I were back at school and my mother came to see me I’d hug her before everybody in the middle of the street.  Do you realize what a tremendous change that means, you little girl who’s never had brothers?  You extraordinary adorable little lovely thing?”

And off he was again.

“When I was small,” said Anna-Felicitas after a while, still watching her feet, “I had a governess who urged me to consider, before I said anything, whether it were the sort of thing I would like to say in the hearing of my parents.  Would you like to say what you’re saying to me in the hearing of your parents?”