hurt you.”
They smiled, unembarrassed.
“That was certainly a big dirigible,” he ventured. “There are bigger Zeps, of course.”
“Are there really?”
“Oh, yes. But they’re not much good in war, I believe.”
She turned her trim, small head and looked out across the bay; and Shotwell, who once had had a gaily receptive eye for pulchritude, thought her unusually pretty.
Also, the steady keel of the Elsinore was making him feel more human now; and he ventured a further polite observation concerning the pleasures of homecoming after extended exile.
She turned with a frank shake of her head: “It seems heartless to say so, but I’m rather sorry I’m back,” she said.
He smiled: “I must admit,” he confessed, “that I feel the same way. Of course I want to see my people. But I’d give anything to be in France at this moment, and that’s the truth!”
The girl nodded her comprehension: “It’s quite natural,” she remarked. “One does not wish to come home until this thing is settled.”
“That’s it exactly. It’s like leaving an interesting play half finished. It’s worse––it’s like leaving an absorbing 32 drama in which you yourself are playing an exciting rôle.”
She glanced at him––a quick glance of intelligent appraisal.
“Yes, it must have seemed that way to you. But I’ve been merely one among a breathless audience. … And yet I can’t bear to leave in the very middle––not knowing how it is to end. Besides,” she added carelessly, “I have nobody to come back to except a rather remote relative, so my regrets are unmixed.”
There ensued a silence. He was afraid she was about to go, but couldn’t seem to think of anything to say to detain her.
For the girl was very attractive to a careless and amiably casual man of his sort––the sort who start their little journey through life with every intention of having the best kind of a time on the way.
She was so distractingly pretty, so confidently negligent of convention––or perhaps disdainful of it––that he already was regretting that he had not met her at the beginning of the voyage instead of at the end.
She had now begun to button up her ulster, as though preliminary to resuming her deck promenade. And he wanted to walk with her. But because she had chosen to be informal with him did not deceive him into thinking that she was likely to tolerate further informality on his part. And yet he had a vague notion that her inclinations were friendly.
“I’m sorry,” he said rather stupidly, “that I didn’t meet you in the beginning.”
The slightest inclination of her head indicated that although possibly she might be sorry too, regrets were now useless. Then she turned up the collar of her 33 ulster. The face it framed was disturbingly lovely. And he took a last chance.
“And so,” he ventured politely, “you have really been on board the Elsinore all this time!”
She turned her charming head toward him, considered him a moment; then she smiled.
“Yes,” she said; “I’ve been on board all the time. I didn’t crawl aboard in mid-ocean, you know.”
The girl was frankly amused by the streak of boyishness in him––the perfectly transparent desire of this young man to detain her in conversation. And, still amused, she leaned back against the rail. If he wanted to talk to her she would let him––even help him. Why not?
“Is that a wound chevron?” she inquired, looking at the sleeve of his tunic.
“No,” he replied gratefully, “it’s a service stripe.”
“And what does the little cord around your shoulder signify?”
“That my regiment was cited.”
“For bravery?”
“Well––that was the idea, I believe.”
“Then you’ve been in action.”
“Yes.”
“Over the top?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Several. Recently it’s been more open work, you know.”
“And you were not hit?”
“No.”
She regarded him smilingly: “You are like all soldiers have faced death,” she said. “You are not communicative.”
34
At that he reddened. “Well, everybody else was facing it, too, you know. We all had the same experience.”
“Not all,” she said, watching him. “Some died.”
“Oh, of course.”
The girl’s face flushed and she nodded emphatically: “Of course! And that is our Yankee secret;––embodied in those two words––‘of course.’ That is exactly why the boche runs away from our men. The boche doesn’t know why he runs, but it is because you all say, ‘of course!––of course we’re here to kill and get killed. What of it? It’s in the rules of the game, isn’t it? Very well; we’re playing the game!’
“But the rules of the hun game are different. According to their rules, machine guns are not charged on. That is not according to plan. Oh, no! But it is in your rules of the game. So after the boche has killed a number of you, and you say, ‘of course,’ and you keep coming on, it first bewilders the boche, then terrifies him. And the next time he sees you coming he takes to his heels.”
Shotwell, amused, fascinated, and entirely surprised, began to laugh.
“You seem to know the game pretty well yourself,” he said. “You are quite right. That is the idea.”
“It’s a wonderful game,” she mused. “I can understand why you are not pleased at being ordered home.”
“It’s rather rotten luck when the outfit had just been cited,” he explained.
“Oh. I should think you would hate to come back!” exclaimed the girl, with frank sympathy.
“Well, I was glad at first, but I’m sorry now. I’m missing a lot, you see.”
“Why did they send you back?”
35
“To instruct rookies!” he said with a grimace. “Rather inglorious, isn’t it? But I’m hoping I’ll have time to weather this detail and get back again before we reach the Rhine.”
