Page:The Return of the Soldier (Van Druten).djvu/61

 as I saw her as I remember her last  under the trees in a white dress, and her lovely yellow hair, sweet and gentle and shy  you’d understand that I can’t say, “Yes, Kitty is my wife, and Margaret somehow just nothing at all.”



I can hardly wait I’m all on fire and trembling  to see her again.

But I must tell you. I’ve seen her. She came up here yesterday, so kind and sweet, to tell us you were wounded. She’s the greatest dear in the world, but she’s not as you think of her. She’s middle-aged, Chris. She isn’t beautiful any longer. She’s drearily married and tired and sad and worn by poverty and work. She isn’t the Margaret you knew.

It’s something beyond what she looks—it’s what she is. Listen—in the garden of the inn, there was a little Greek temple, and one night we went down there together. It was a marvellous night—warm and blue and scented. The place was flooded with moonlight, and as she stood there I knew that it wouldn’t have mattered if her hair had been white or her face pale and silvered as it looked for a moment. I knew then that my love was changeless—beyond