"
She had written him at the beginning of the war, telling him of her wish
to get out to the front, and he thought that now he might be able to help
her.
"But perhaps you've changed your mind," he said. "It isn't quite as
pretty as it's painted."
"I want to," she answered. "It isn't all curiosity. I think it's time
for women to insist on seeing war with their own eyes, not trust any
longer to the pictures you men paint." She smiled.
"But I've got to give it up," she added. "I can't leave Dad."
They were sitting in the hall of the hotel. It was the dressing hour and
the place was almost empty. He shot a swift glance at her.
"Arthur is still away," she explained, "and I feel that he wants me. I
should be worrying myself, thinking of him all alone with no one to look
after him. It's the mother instinct I suppose. It always has hampered
woman." She laughed.
"Dear old boy," he said. He was watching her with a little smile. "I'm
glad he's got some luck at last."
They dined in the great restaurant belonging to the hotel. He was still
vastly pleased with himself as he marched up the crowded room with Joan
upon his arm.
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