"Of course not seeing her or hearing from her--why--you see--but when I
do see her it will all come right back. I _know_ that."
He smiled a little grimly. "Normally," he said, "there are years of
pleasant living before you. But not if you get yourself killed--not if
you lose an arm or a leg, or come back with half your face shot off,
and your one remaining ear stone deaf from cannon fire. But anyway I'm
glad the Fulton business is over. Your love has cooled and, even if
Lucy's hasn't--there could never be anything between you now?"
He was speaking sarcastically. He went on in the same vein: "The year
over--even if you found that Lucy was still wrapped up in you, that her
happiness depended on you, you would not, of course, feel that you were
under any obligation to _pretend_ that you still cared for her and to
do a gentleman's best to make her happy."
"I get your point, father," I said; "and of course if she still cares,
I must try to make good. Of course I must."
"Suppose," he said, no longer sarcastically, but very earnestly,
"suppose the year is up. Suppose Lucy still cares, and as a reward for
her faithfulness and her patience there is nothing but your grave
'somewhere in France'? This is why I asked you if you _could_ go."
"I'll look like a fool," I said. "I've told several people that I was
surely going."
"That's too bad," he said; "but you'll have to stand it. You have a
good reputation for physical pluck, though, and nobody will say
anything very nasty. And as for us," his voice rang a little, "who are
on the inside, we know that it is braver of you to stay than to go."
"Anyway," I said, "if she--if Lucy--doesn't care any more--why I can go
then."
"You can go _then_. But it seems to me that a man of education is
wasted in a trench. That, however, is a matter of taste."