'Isn't it strange--' her tone was thoughtful--'how people care for poetry
nowadays! A few years ago, one never heard of people--ordinary
people--_buying_ poetry, new poetry--or reading it. But I know a shop in
Manchester that's just full of poetry--new books and old books--and the
shop-man told me that people buy it almost more than anything. Isn't it
funny? What makes them do it? Is it the war?'

Sarratt considered it, while making a smooth path for a gorgeous green
beetle through the bit of turf beside him.

'I suppose it's the war,' he said at last. 'It does change fellows. It's
easy enough to go along bluffing and fooling in ordinary times. Most men
don't know what they think--or what they feel--or whether they feel
anything. But somehow--out there--when you see the things other fellows
are doing--when you know the things you may have to do yourself--well----'

'Yes, yes--go on!' she said eagerly, and he went on, but reluctantly,
for he had seen her shiver, and the white lids fall a moment over her
eyes.

'--It doesn't seem unnatural--or hypocritical--or canting--to talk and
feel--sometimes--as you couldn't talk or feel at home, with life going
on just as usual. I've had to censor letters, you see, darling--and the
letters some of the roughest and stupidest fellows write, you'd never
believe. And there's no pretence in it either. What would be the good of
pretending out there? No--it's just the pace life goes--and the
fire--and the strain of it. It's awful--and _horrible_--and yet you
wouldn't not be there for the world.'