“I’ve joined the Artists’ Rifles,” Dion said to Rosamund one day.
He spoke almost bruskly. Of late he had begun to develop a manner which had just a hint of roughness in it sometimes. This manner was the expression of a strong inward effort he was making. If, as his mother believed, already Rosamund was able to live with the child, Dion’s solitary possession of the woman he loved was definitely over, probably forever. Something within him which, perhaps, foolishly, rebelled against this fact had driven him to seek a diversion; he had found it in beginning to try to live for the child in the man’s way. He intended to put the old life behind him, and to march vigorously on to the new. He called up Master Tim before him in the little white “sweater,” with the primrose-colored ruffled feathers of hair, the gritted white teeth, small almost as the teeth of a mouse, the moist, ardent cheeks, and the glowing eyes looking steadfastly to the Tribal God. He must be the Tribal God to his little son, if the child were a son.
Rosamund did not seem surprised by Dion’s abrupt statement, though he had never spoken of an intention to join any Volunteer Corps. She knew he was fond of shooting, and had been in camp sometimes when he was at a public school.
“What’s that?” she asked. “I’ve heard of it, but I thought it was a corps for men who are painters, sculptors, writers and musicians.”
“It was founded, nearly forty years ago, I believe, for fellows working in the Arts, but all sorts of business men are let in now.”
“No; I shall have to drill a certain amount, and in summer I shall go into camp for a bit, and of course, if a big war ever came, I could be of some use.”
“I thought you would be. I shall see a little less of you, I suppose, but, after all, a husband can’t be perpetually hanging about the house, can he?”
Rosamund looked at him and smiled, then laughed gently.
“Dion, how absurd you are! In some ways you are only a boy still.”
“A man who sticks to business as you do, hanging about the house!”
“No, because I should know it was doing you harm.”
“And besides--do you realize how independent you are?”
“For a woman I think you are extraordinarily independent.”
She sat still for a minute, looking straight before her in an almost curious stillness.