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She understood. His startled eyes, and his air of dumb and inarticulate appeal revealed him to her. He wanted to talk to some one, to talk as he had never talked before, to empty himself and his fear. She had a feeling that he had no one to whom he could talk, or who would understand the things he had to say. He was afraid, and dared not say so. He had to pretend, and he was not doing it very well. He was both afraid and ashamed of his fear, but not so ashamed of it as to wish to hide it completely.

“Staying at an hotel?”

He started; he had gone off into a sort of overcast reverie.

“No,—at my mater’s. Cardigan Square.”

“You are out early.”

“I woke up early. Felt I wanted to walk. My name is St. George.”

“Mine’s Greenwood,—Kitty. My mother owns this business.”

“O,” he said, and brooded.

She wondered how long he had been in the army, and how it was that he had not been out before. She thought that he did not look very strong; he had one of those delicate, clear skins that freckle easily; the texture of him had too sensitive a fineness. It seemed to show in his hair and his hands.

And then he surprised her. She had grown accustomed to the many franknesses of the war, an honesty that could be almost brutal. Either you had no skin at all, or a skin that was thickened and less sensitive.

He was holding his cigarette between the first and second finger, and watching the smoke rising from it in a thin thread.

“Funny, isn’t it, that our class holds a cigarette like this, and the common chaps hold it with a thumb and finger—? I sometimes wish—. But that’s neither here nor there. May I tell you something?”

She nodded. She seemed to be growing more and more serious.

“Anything—you like.”

“I went home drunk last night. First time in my life. A rotten thing to do.”

Again she was aware of that deep stirring of her compassion.

“O,—that might depend—,” she said.

“On why—or how?”

“Of course.”

“It shocked my mater. She’s always so—perfectly right.”

“Was she shocked?”

“Awfully. But—I say—I ought not to be talking like this—. I don’t know what you must think—.”

She looked at him for a moment, knitting up her straight, broad forehead, and then she rose and closed the door.

“If I understand—. That makes it all right, doesn’t it?”

He stared up at her with those wide eyes of his.

“You mean—you understand—why?”

She nodded.

“Why not? The war’s a beastly business. I know. And if you like—you can tell me—.”

His head went down.

“But I simply can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone. It’s too—.”

She sat down nearer to him.

“Yes, you can. You can tell me. In fact—I think I know.”

He seemed to flinch as though she had touched some acutely sensitive and hidden wound.

“You know?”

“You are feeling rather bad—about going out there.”

He stared at her for a moment.

“Good lord, do I look as bad as that?”

“O—no.”

But he was horrified. He sat with his head between his hands, staring at the carpet.

“But I must do. You must have seen. Everybody must see. When I’m out in the street I see people looking at me and thinking—‘That fellow’s afraid.’ And—my god—it’s true. I never knew that I—. And it’s horrible, so horribly humiliating—.”

She sat very still.

“It’s natural. I’ve seen scores of men—who dreaded going out—. And they were afraid of their own fear. You won’t feel so bad about it—perhaps—now that some one knows.”

His head remained down.

“But you must—despise me.”

“No,—not for a moment. Isn’t every man afraid? Of course. I have heard a V.C. boy say—here in this very room—that any man who said that he didn’t know what fear was, was either a liar or a fool.”

“Thank you,” he said. “But—I wish—,” and lapsed into silence, for having come out of his dark cupboard, the black hole of his unconfessed terror, he seemed to become acutely conscious of her as a woman, a sturdy little person with very dark and fearless eyes, and a glowing head, and a warm white skin. She had spoken of the day as a day of beauty, and suddenly he seemed to have his head in the sunlight. She had become to him a thing of beauty, a live, warm, human creature who somehow understood how a man felt. A girl in a shop! But then—! And he was sitting there within a yard of her, alive to the glow and the mystery of her.

“You have been awfully good to me.”

“O, not a bit.”

He looked at her shyly, but with slightly more confidence and with a very definite homage in his eyes.

“Queer that I should have wandered in here? Almost as though it was meant—.”

“Perhaps it was meant. I think there is somebody in the shop.”

When she opened the door Alex saw a tall officer with a very red face and a white moustache, and three rows of ribbons on his tunic, and crossed swords and two stars on his shoulder-straps. He stood in the middle of the shop; he gave the little figure in the green knitted coat a slight bow; he both smiled and looked at her like the very great gentleman that he was.

“Well,—Miss Kitty—. I want a box of my usuals—if you please.”

Mrs St. George’s son sat and listened to those two pleasant voices. He threw quick and sensitive glances round the little room. It was strange how some rooms affected you, and this back room, with its red walls and white paint and red cushions, made you feel snug and warm and safe. Extraordinary chance—his drifting in here! He supposed that he ought to be going, but he did not want to go. No, not at all. In fact, his overcast mood threatened to return when he imagined himself out in the street and alone. Yet, he ought to go back to his mother, his much-shocked mother who was always so right.

He saw the general raise his hand to his cap, and disappear through the shop doorway. So a general could salute Miss Kitty Greenwood? Quite right. And Kitty was looking in at him with very intent dark eyes. He had become more than a chance and casual man sitting on her mother’s sofa. Something had happened, and it had happened to them both.

“General Gratton. He knew me when I had my hair down.”

“Fine old boy. One of the sahibs.”

“Most of them are like that.”

She came into the room, and he looked up at her like a shy supplicant.

“I suppose I ought to be going.—I suppose you’ll be busy.”

“We are always busy.”

“Would you mind—if I stayed a little longer? It’s so—so restful in here.”

She appeared to be considering something. She turned and looked through the doorway into Vernor Street.

“The sun’s shining. We generally have quite a crowd here.”

He stood up. He thought that she was gently hinting. He was just as ready to efface himself.—But she remained standing in the doorway. She put up a hand and touched her hair.

“One gets a little tired of crowds.—Sometimes—I take a day off. You see—my mother and my sister—.”

His wide eyes gave a kind of eager flicker.

“You couldn’t—could you?—I mean—I have had no one to talk to. And you’ve been so awfully—.”

She looked at him steadily.

“I don’t go out—.”

“No; of course not.—I really didn’t mean.—Not for a moment. Please believe—.”

“Sit down,” she said, “I’ll tell the others. I’ll go and put on a hat.”