‘I can’t be sorry. I can only be glad,’ and I put out both my
hands to him, across the table.
‘It isn’t your fault,’ I said, ‘you have done your best. I think
I may be glad.’
His eyes were fixed on the table, and he did not answer me; then
he pulled his hands away, and buried his face.
‘I am not sorry either,’ he said huskily, ‘that is what is so
awful. I thought I wanted to go. I thought I wanted to prove,
to myself and every one else, that I could fight, and be a fine
fellow. I made myself believe it, but it wasn’t true. I know
now that I was afraid all the time!’
I went round beside him and kneeled on the floor and I leaned
my cheek against his arm. I felt as though he were a child, as
though he were much younger than me, and weaker, as I used sometimes
to feel with Hugo, when we were children.