...As for romance, well, she was in
the romantic mood. It was a right of youth that she had missed, but a woman
may be quite as romantic at thirty-four as at eighteen, if she has sealed
her fountain instead of splashing it dry when she was too young to know
its preciousness. Once before she had surrendered to romance, fleetingly:
during the week that followed the night she had sat on Calvary with
Gathbroke and watched a sea of flames.
The mood descended upon her, possessed her. She had other patients. There
were the same old horrors, the same heart-rending duties; but the mood
stayed with her. And after he left, for England. She knew there could, be
but one ending. Her imagination had surrendered to tradition.
Moreover, she was tired of hard work. She wanted to settle down in a home.
She wanted children. She must always write, of course. Writing was as
natural to her as breathing. And she had already proved that a woman could
do two things equally well.
II
She never thought of trying to follow him back to England, to shirk the
increasing terrible duties behind the reorganized but harassed armies. The
wounded seemed to drop through the hospital roof like flies.
Nevertheless when she was abruptly transferred to London she went without
protest! It was then that she began to have misgivings. She was given
charge of a large hospital just outside of London and her duties were
constant and confining.
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