Ruth trembled with joyous excitement.
"I wanted to tell you better what I meant," he went on. "And to find out more from you."
"About?"
"What we'd been arguing. I told you that day I'd never had a chance to talk over affairs with an American like you; and I hadn't later.
"You see," he explained after a moment of thought, "it seemed to me that the other people I met at home—or most of them, anyway—went into the war as a sort of social event. I don't mean that they made light of it; they didn't. They were heart and soul in the cause; and a good many of them did a lot of real work. But they didn't react to any—original ideas, as far as I could make out. They imported their opinions and sympathies. And the ones who were hottest to have America in the war weren't the people who'd been most of their lives in America; but the ones who'd been in England or France. I told you that day that what they said was just what I'd been hearing on the other side."
In spite of the canvas shield, it was very cold where they were standing. Gerry moved a bit as he talked; and Ruth stepped with him, letting him lead her to a door which he opened, to discover a little writing room or card room which happened to be deserted just then. He motioned to her to precede him; and when she sat down upon one of the upholstered chairs fixed before a table, he took the place opposite, tossing his cap away and loosening his coat. She unbuttoned her coat and pulled off her heavy gloves. She had made no reply, and he seemed to expect none, but to be satisfied with her waiting.
