“Women _must_ have something to do,” said the Philosopher, comfortably. “And it amuses them to go fussing over wounded men and putting bandages on broken heads and limbs--it _saves_ them,--_saves_ them, I do assure you! That V.A.D. hospital is a perfect godsend to the women of this neighbourhood--gives them a fresh interest in life and stops their horrible “bridge” for a time. To wipe the fevered manly brow and comb the manly hair gives them a thrill of delightful excitement--it’s something new; and the plainest old spectacled harridan that ever lived likes to be called ‘Sister’ by a smart boy of twenty. Yes! the V.A.D. is a boon and a blessing!--it serves a double purpose: sick-nursing and matrimony. The blacksmith’s anvil at Gretna Green is not in it with a bed in a convalescent ward, and a good-looking ‘sister’ about.”
His gouty host grumbled assent--the Sentimentalist listened without comment. When the Philosopher talked in this sort of way she always felt herself removed very far from him,--she realised, with a little sense of pain that he and she had nothing in common. She had an appreciation of what she imagined to be his “cleverness,” but she also had a keen consciousness that he merely tolerated what he considered her stupidity under the guise of “sentiment.”
One day on her way back from her work at the V.A.D. she met Jack. She had not seen him for some time, and had lately wondered what kept him so long away, but the moment she saw him she knew. He was in khaki,--and very smart and well set up he looked. Yet there was an expression in his handsome young face that altered it somehow--and her heart beat a little more quickly as she held out her hand to him with a pleased utterance of his name:
He smiled tenderly into her uplifted eyes.
“Yes, it’s me!” he said. “I’ve joined up. I had to. I couldn’t rest day or night till I did.”
“But--but you are an American!” she exclaimed.
“Yes. But I’m a man too, I hope! I couldn’t see all the brave blood of Britain starting to kill the Hun Dragon without wanting to be a bit of St. George myself. And America will be in the tussle presently. That’s what I’ve told the old man--my father--and though I’m his only hopeful (or hopeless!) he lets me go. I meant to see you somehow before training. But I never get you alone for five minutes in the house. Let’s have a stroll by the river.”