her for a minute.

She sat down on the edge of her bed and he sat on Gwinnie's, elbows
crooked out, hands planted on wide parted knees; he leaned forward,
looking at her, his face innocent and yet astute; his thick,
expressionless eyes clear now and penetrating. He seemed to be fairly
humming with activity left over from the excitement of the day. He was
always either dreamy and withdrawn, or bursting, bursting with energy,
and at odd moments he would drop off suddenly to sleep with his chin
doubled on his breast, recovering from his energy. Perhaps he had just
waked up now to this freshness.

"Look here," he said. "You didn't break down. That man wasn't too
heavy for you."

"He was. He was an awful weight. I couldn't have carried him a yard."

"That won't do, Charlotte. I _saw_ you take him on your back."

She could feel the blood rising up in her face before him. He was hurting
her with shame.

He persisted, merciless. "It was Conway who broke down."

She had tears now.

"Nobody knows," he said gently, "but you and me.... I want to talk to
you about him. He must be got away from the Front. He must be got out
of Belgium."