'She's never shown the slightest sign of it,' said Aylmer. 'I think it's your imagination. But even if it's not, it isn't my business, nor yours.' 'I think it is, a little.' 'If you talk like that, I'll send her away today.' 'Oh, Aylmer! how ungrateful of you to say such a thing! She's been an angel.' He spoke wearily. 'I don't want _angels_! I want _you_!' He suddenly leant forward and took her hands. She laughed nervously. 'What a compliment.' Then she disengaged herself and stood up. Aylmer sighed. 'Now you're going to say, Ought you to talk so much? What is your temperature? Oh, women _are_ irritating, even the nicest, confound them!' Edith was unable to help laughing. 'I'm afraid I _was_ going to say something like that.' 'Now, are you going to say you won't answer me for fear it will excite me?' 'Don't talk nonsense,' said Edith. '_I_ take you seriously enough. Don't worry!' He looked delighted. 'Thank heaven! Most women treat a wounded man as if he were a sick child or a lunatic. It's the greatest rot. I'm nearly well.' Edith looked round for his tonic, but stopped herself. 'Are you going now?' he asked. 'No, Aylmer. I thought of stopping a few minutes, if you don't mind.' 'Shall we talk of something else,' said Aylmer satirically, 'to divert my thoughts? Hasn't it been lovely weather lately?' She smiled and sat down again. 'Would you like to know how soon the war will be over?' he went on. 'Oddly enough, I really don't know!' 'Are you going back when you've recovered?' she asked abruptly. 'Of course I'm going back; and I want to go back with your promise.' Then he looked a little conscience-stricken. 'Dear Edith, I don't want to rush you. Forgive me.' They both sat in dead silence for five minutes. He was looking at the black velvet toque on the fair hair, over the soft eyes. She was staring across at the cherry-coloured carnations in the pewter vase on the mantelpiece. As has been said, they often exchanged ideas without words. He remarked, as she glanced at a book: 'Yes, I have read _A Life of Slavery_. Have you? Do you think it good?' 'Splendid,' Edith answered; 'it's a labour of hate.' He laughed. 'Quite true. One can't call it a labour of love, though it was written to please the writer--not the public.' 'I wonder you could read it,' said Edith, 'after what you've been through.' 'It took my thoughts off life,' he said. 'Why? Isn't it life?' 'Of course it is. Literary life.' Edith looked at the clock. 'When am I going to see you again?' he asked in a rather exhausted voice. 'Whenever you like. What about taking you out for a drive next week?' 'Right.' 'I'll think over what you said,' said Edith casually as she stood up. 'What a funny little speech. You're _impayable_! Oh, you are a jolly girl!' '"Jolly" girl,' repeated Edith, not apparently pleased. 'I'm thirty-five, with a boy at school and a growing girl of seven!' 'You think too much of the almanac. I'm forty-one, with a son at the front.'