What she meant was that it would be wonderful to have, in future, a personal interest in the British Expeditionary Force. As already indicated, the circle in which Marjorie had been born and bred was not very heavily represented in France—nor would be until conscription came. But now Roy would be there. She would have a personal outlet for her imagination, and a peg to hang her prayers on. Women hate abstract patriotism, as they hate all abstractions. Roy would supply the human, personal element, upon which a woman’s visions must always be founded. Male orators might volley and thunder about the common cause and the redemption of civilization; but to most women the Great War and its issues were usually embodied in the person of a single undistinguished individual in a tin bowler. Roy, of course, did not understand. "How glorious of you to say that, Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "You do not know," continued Marjorie rapturously, "how I have longed and longed to have some one to write to, and send parcels to, and everything—some one I really knew!—instead of a bundle of things to be distributed among a whole platoon!" "And you are going to make me that particular person?" said Roy, joyfully. "Rather! You see," explained Marjorie with fatal frankness, "I don’t know anyone else. At least, I shan’t, until Joe—" Roy’s face fell. "I thought there was a catch about it!" he said woefully. "About what?" "About what you said. I didn’t understand that all you wanted was some one to write to; and any old thing would do—even me! I did hope, for a minute—" Marjorie was all repentance at once. "Oh!" she cried. "How hateful of me! Roy, I didn’t mean it! What must you think of me? I must seem like a common little war-flapper. But I’m not, am I? Roy, you _know_ I’m not! Will you forgive me?" She extended a hand impetuously. It fired the train. Next moment Roy had caught it in both of his, and was kissing it rapturously. "Marjorie—dear!" he murmured. He was kneeling before her now, with his arms crossed upon her knees. He looked up into her face, and suddenly realised what he was leaving behind. A great sob shook him. Perhaps the thought of the twenty-three second lieutenants had something to do with it. After all, he was only nineteen, and love and life were very sweet. His head sank on to his arms; his shoulders heaved. There followed a brief interval of silence—perhaps three minutes. But within that interval something happened to Marjorie. Presently a slim hand removed Roy’s glengarry bonnet, and began to stroke his obstinately curly hair. Next, Roy was conscious of a warm splash, somewhere behind his right ear—followed by another, and another. Marjorie was shaking now. Roy looked up at her again, and the sight of her wet face suddenly braced him against his own weakness. He sprang up. "You poor, poor, poor!" he said. "Let me—"