when he was not looking at her--which he was most of the time, for
reasons which were good and sufficient to others besides himself.
Apprehended in "wool-gathering," she mustered a smile which was
so exclusively for him that the neighbour felt that he ought to be
forgiven his peeps from the tail of his eye at it because it was so
precious.

They attempted little flights of talk about everything except the war.
He was most solicitous that she should have something which she
liked to eat, whilst she was equally solicitous about him. Wasn't he
going "out there?" And out there he would have to live on army fare. It
was all appealing to the old traveller. And then the next morning--she
was alone, after she had given him that precious smile in parting. The
incident was one of the thousands before the war had become an
institution, death a matter of routine, and it was a commonplace for
young wives to see young husbands away to the front with a smile.

One such incident does for all, whether the war be young or old.
There is nothing else to tell, even when you know wife and husband. I
was rather glad that I did not know this pair. If I had known them I
should be looking at the casualty list for his name and I might not
enjoy my faith that he will return alive. These two seemed to me the
best of England. I used to think of them when gossip sought the latest
turn of intrigue under the mantle of censorship, when Parliament
poured out its oral floods and the newspapers their volumes of words.
The man went off to fight; the woman returned to her country home. It
was the hour of war, not of talk.

On that Sunday in London when the truth about Mons appeared stark
to all England, another young man happened to buy a special edition