THE UNDERCURRENT
I’m no bally use, you know. Wouldn’t be any bally use over there. Make some silly ass mistake probably. No end of trouble—all around.”
“And you’re willing to sacrifice the goodwill, the affection of your friends, the respect of the girl you say you love”
“Oh, I say, Doris. Not that”
“Yes. I’ve got to tell you. I can’t be unfair to myself. I can’t respect a man who sees others cheerfully carrying his burdens, doing his work, accepting his hardships in order that he may sleep soundly at home far away from the nightmare of shot and shell. You, Cyril, you! Is it that—the love of ease? Or is it something else—something to do with your German kinship—the memory of your mother. What is it? If you still want me, Cyril, it is my right to know”
“Want you, Doris—” his voice went a little lower. “Yes, I want you. You might know that.”
“Then you must tell me.”
He hesitated and peered at the eyeglass in his fingers.
“I think—it’s because I—” He paused and then crossed his hands and bowed his head with an air of relinquishment. “Because I think I must be a”—he almost whispered the word—“a coward.”
Doris Mather gazed at him a long moment of mingled dismay and incredulity.
“You,” she whispered, “the first sportsman of England—a—a coward.”
He gave a short mirthless laugh.
“Queer, isn’t it, the way a chap feels about such things? I always hated the idea of being mangled. Awf’ly unpleasant idea that—’specially in the tummy. In India once I saw a chap”
23
