The two women stared at them as they passed. One, the tall one, whispered
something to the other.

"John--do my knees show awfully as I walk?"

"No. Of course they don't. Gwinnie's do. She doesn't know what to do
with them."

He looked down at her and smiled.

"I like you. I like you in that cap. You look as if you were sailing fast
against a head wind, as if you could cut through anything."

Their turn brought them again under the women's eyes. He took her arm and
drew her aside to the rail of the boat's stern. They stood there,
watching the wake boiling and breaking and thinning, a white lace of
froth on the glassy green. Sutton passed them.

"What's the matter with him?" she said.

"The War. He's got it on his mind. It's no use taking it like that,
Jeanne, as one consummate tragedy ... How are _you_ feeling about it?"

"I don't think I'm feeling anything--except wanting to get there. And
wanting--wanting frightfully--to help."

"Unless you can go into it as if it was some tremendous, happy
adventure--That's the only way to take it. I shouldn't be any good if I
didn't feel it was the most _romantic_ thing that ever happened to