She heard Alice Bartrum's voice calling to Trixie as she went out, "It's jolly decent of her not to go back on him."

The voice went on. "You needn't mind what Trixie says about cold feet. She's said it about everybody. About Sutton and Mac, and all our men, and me."

She thought: What's the good of lying when they all know? Still, there were things they wouldn't know if she kept on lying, things they would never guess.

"Trixie doesn't know anything about him," she said. "No more do you. You don't know what he _was_."

"Whatever he _is_, whatever he's done, Charlotte, you mustn't let it hurt you. It hasn't anything to do with you. We all know what _you_ are."

"Me? I'm not bothering about myself. I tell you it's not what _you_ think about him, it's what _I_ think."

"Yes," said Alice Bartrum. Then Gwinnie Denning and John Conway came in and she left them.

John carried himself very straight, and again Charlotte saw about him that odd look of accomplishment and satisfaction.

"So you got through?" he said.

"Yes. I got through." They kept their eyes from each other as they spoke.

Gwinnie struck in, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, rather.... The little Belgian Army doctor was there. He was adorable, sticking on, working away with his wounded, in a sort of heavenly peace, with the Germans just outside."

"How many did you get?"

"Eleven--Thirteen."

"Oh good.... I've the rottenest luck. I'd have given my head to have gone with you."

"I'm glad you didn't. It wasn't what you'd call a lady's tea-party."

"Who wants a lady's tea-party? I ought to have gone in with the Mac Corps. Then I'd have had a chance."

"Not this time. Mac draws the line somewhere.... Look here, Gwinnie, I wish you'd clear out a minute and let me talk to John."

Gwinnie went, grumbling.

For a moment silence came down between them. John was drinking coffee with an air of being alone in the room, pretending that he hadn't heard and didn't see her.

"John--I didn't mind driving that car. I knew I could do it and I did it.

I won't say I didn't mind the sh.e.l.ling, because I did. Still, sh.e.l.ling's all in the day's work. And I didn't mind your sending me, because I'd rather have gone myself than let you go. I don't want you to be killed.

Somehow that's still the one thing I couldn't bear. But if you'd sent Gwinnie I'd have killed you."

"I didn't send Gwinnie. I gave you your chance. I knew you wanted to cut Mrs. Rankin out."

"I? I never thought of such a rotten thing."

"Well, you talked about danger as if you liked it."

"So did you."

"Oh--_go_ to h.e.l.l."

"I've just come from there."

"Oh--so you were frightened, were you?"

"Yes, I was horribly frightened. I had thirteen wounded men with me. What do you suppose it feels like, driving a heavy ambulance car by yourself?

You can't sit in front and steer and look after thirteen wounded men at the same time. I had to keep hopping in and out. That isn't nice when there's sh.e.l.ls about. I shall never forgive you for not coming to give a hand with those men. There's funk you can forgive and--"

She thought: "It's John--John--I'm saying these disgusting things to.

I'm as bad as Trixie, telling him what I b.l.o.o.d.y well think of him, going back on him."

"And there's funk--"

"You'd better take care, Charlotte. Do you know I could get you fired out of Belgium to-morrow?"

"Not after to-night, I think." (It was horrible.)

He got up and opened the door. "Anyhow, you'll clear out of this room now, d.a.m.n you."

"I wish you'd heard that Army doctor d.a.m.ning _you_."

"Why didn't he go back with you himself, then?"

"_He_ couldn't leave his wounded."

He slammed the door hard behind her.

That was just like him. Wounded men everywhere, trying to sleep, and he slammed doors. He didn't care.

She would have to go on lying. She had made up her mind to that. So long as it would keep the others from knowing, so long as John's awfulness went beyond their knowledge, so long as it would do any good to John, she would lie.

Her time had come. She remembered saying that. She could hear herself talking to John at Barrow Hill Farm: "Everybody's got their breaking point.... I daresay when my time comes I shall funk and lie."

Well, didn't she? Funk--the everlasting funk of wondering what John would do next; and lying, lying at every turn to save him. _He_ was her breaking point.

She had lied, the first time they went out, about the firing. She wondered whether she had done it because then, even then, she had been afraid of his fear. Hadn't she always somehow, in secret, been afraid?

She could see the car coming round the corner by the Church in the narrow street at Stow, she could feel it grazing her thigh, and John letting her go, jumping safe to the curb. She had pretended that it hadn't happened.

But that first day--No. He had been brave then. She had only lied because she was afraid he would worry about her.... Brave then. Could war tire you and wear you down, and change you from yourself? In two weeks? Change him so that she had to hate him!

Half the night she lay awake wondering: Do I hate him because he doesn't care about me? Or because he doesn't care about the wounded? She could see all their faces: the face of the wounded man at Melle (_he_ had crawled out on his hands and knees to look for her); the face of the dead boy who hadn't died when John left him; the Flamand they brought from Lokeren, lying in the road; the face of the dead man in the shed--And John's face.

How could you care for a thing like that? How could you want a thing like that to care for you?

And she? She didn't matter. Nothing mattered in all the world but Them.