And she believed that she had saved
his life. Not only by her accomplished nursing. Her powerful will had
thrown out its grappling irons about his escaping ego and dragged it back
and held it in its exhausted tenement.
He had believed that also. He had an engaging spontaneity of nature and
he had felt and shown her a lively gratitude. He was restless and frankly
unhappy when she was out of his sight. He had a charming way of Baying
charming things to a woman and he said them to her. But he was also as full
of ironic humor as in his letters and "ragged" her. And he talked to her
eagerly when he was better and she had gone with him to a hospital far back
of the lines. There were intervals when they could talk, and the other men
would listen...and had taken things for granted.
So had she. He had not made love to her. There was no privacy. Moreover,
she guessed that his keen sense of the ridiculous would not permit him to
make love to any woman when helpless under her hands.
But how could there be other than one finale to such a story as theirs?
What was fiction but the reflection of life? if she had written a story
with these obvious materials there could have been but one logical
ending--unless, in a sudden spasm of reaction against romance, she had
killed him off.
But he would live; and not be strong enough to return to the front for
mouths...the war _must_ be over by then.
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