“A dozen different things.  Nobody knows exactly how to take him.”

“I wonder if we have ever understood him,” said Corinna, a little sadly.  “I sometimes think—­” Then she broke off hurriedly.  “No, don’t get out, I’ll take you down to your office.  I sometimes think,” she resumed, “that none of us see him as he really is because we see him through a veil of prejudice, or if you like it better, of sentiment—­”

Stephen laughed without mirth.  “I don’t like it better.  I’d like to get into a world—­or at least I feel this morning that I’d like to get into a world where one was obliged to face nothing softer than a fact—­”

Corinna looked at him tenderly.  She had a sincere, though not a very deep affection, for Stephen, and she felt that she should like to help him, as long as helping him did not necessitate any emotional effort.  “Has it ever occurred to you,” she asked gently, “that the trouble with you, after all, is simply lack of courage?” At the start he gave, she continued hastily, “Oh, I don’t mean physical courage of course.  I do not doubt that you were as brave as a lion when it came to meeting the Germans.  But there are times when life is more terrible than the Germans!  And yet the only courage we have ever glorified is brute courage—­the courage of the lion.  I know that you could face machine guns and bayonets and all the horrors of war; but it seems to me that you have never had really the courage of living—­that you have always been a little afraid of life.”

For a long while he did not answer.  His eyes were on the sky; and she watched the expression of irritation, amazement, dread, perplexity, and shocked comprehension, pass slowly over his features.  “By Jove, I’ve got a feeling that you may be right,” he said at last.  “You probed the wound, and it hurt for a minute; but it may heal all the quicker for that.  You’ve put the whole rotten business into a nutshell.  I’m a coward at bottom, that’s the trouble with me.  Oh, like you, of course, I’m not talking about actual dangers.  They are easy enough, for one can see them coming.  It’s not fear of the Germans.  It’s fear of something that one can’t touch or feel—­that doesn’t even exist—­the fear of one’s imagination.  But the truth is that I’ve funked things for the last year or so.  I’ve been in a chronic blue funk about living.”

She smiled at him brightly.  “It is like a bit of thistle-down.  Bring it out into the air and sunlight, and it will blow away.”

“I wonder if you’re right.  Already I feel better because I’ve told you; and yet I’ve gone in terror lest my mother should discover it.”

When she spoke again she changed the subject as lightly as if they had been discussing the weather.  “You used to be interested in public matters.  Do you remember how you talked to me in your college days about outstripping John in the race?  You were full of ideas then, and full of ambition too.”  She was touching a string that had never failed her yet, and she waited, with an inscrutable smile, for the response.