months of nursing in France and England. She
had broken down. The doctors had ordered her
to America, away from the hospital odour and
the perpetual reminders of war.
She's going back too soon," her mother said.
"Naturally," the girl answered," because he writes he is on light duty again, and he's trying to persuade them he's fit to return to the trenches. I won't have it. I couldn't stand that suspense again. But of course they won't let him. He has a piece of shrapnel shell within an inch of his heart. He's done his bit.
"You know," she went on," I'll have to harden myself. I've grown soft in America, because it's so far from the war. You can't remain sane unless you are hard in the presence of this war."
Reviewing her story, questioning its final word, you realised how true that was. You shrank from the water flashing by, because you knew it measured your approach towards those fantastic occurrences against which men and women must harden their hearts or suffer beyond reason.
Not unnaturally I thought that was all I was ever to know of the young wife's history, yet the next day there was to be a sequel, read at first band, cheerless and unexpected.
We sat until late that last night. She spoke from time to time of the approaching meeting.
