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22
THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER
and this her sluggish insect food that I felt the moment degrading.
Kitty was, I felt, being a little too clever over it.
"How is he wounded?" she asked.
The caller traced a pattern on the carpet with her blunt toe.
"I don't know how to put it; he's not exactly wounded. A shell burst—"
"Concussion?" suggested Kitty
She answered with an odd glibness and humility, as though tendering us a term she had long brooded over without arriving at comprehension, and hoping that our superior intelligences would make something of it:
"Shell-shock." Our faces did not illumine, so she dragged on lamely, "Anyway, he's not well." Again she played with her purse. Her face was visibly damp.
"Not well? Is he dangerously ill?"
