"One can never be sure of a woman," he answered. "And it would have been
so difficult. There was a girl down in Scotland, one of the village
girls. It wasn't anything really. We had just been children together.
But they all thought I had gone away to make my fortune so as to come
back and marry her--even my mother. It would have looked so mean if
after getting on I had married a fine London lady. I could never have
gone home again."
"But you haven't married her--or have you?" asked Joan.
"No," he answered. "She wrote me a beautiful letter that I shall always
keep, begging me to forgive her, and hoping I might be happy. She had
married a young farmer, and was going out to Canada. My mother will
never allow her name to be mentioned in our house."
They had reached the end of the street again. Joan held out her hand
with a laugh.
"Thanks for the compliment," she said. "Though I notice you wait till
you're going away before telling me."
"But quite seriously," she added, "give it a little more thought--the
enlisting, I mean. The world isn't too rich in kind influences.
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