That the young man's means were such as to ensure that their married life would begin in nothing less than a nice villa-possibly even detached-with a “girl,” or perhaps even two, and no silly worry about money-really, to do Bessie justice, counted for very little. Then, a gentleman her social superior one whose voice was kind, whose hands were gentle, and who admired her-yes-but seriously? A fount of honour and worship and flowers and chocolates and theatres and rides in taxis-a feather in her cap, a captive of her bow and spear-someone to talk about, to boast about, to exhibit the photographs and the letters of, to be anxious about-when she remembered-to be proud of when he was mentioned in despatches, to write to-but that was a nuisance-to be married to some day. That was what every woman saw in every man who wore the ugly sand-coloured cloth that served for the British uniform. What did she see in him? A soldier, first of all. It was the real self, but with all the lights heightened, the shadows deepened-the real man or woman painted with flaming colours and a coarse brush, or perhaps rather the real man or woman conventionalized to a sort of typical blowsy loud definiteness-like cheap oleographs of great pictures.
Or perhaps the psycho-analysts would tell us that the personality which emerged during the stress of war was really only the sub-conscious self, purified by pity and terror. IT was one of those war-engagements entered on in haste, between two people each keyed up to something so different from the normal self as to be really a perfectly different entity.
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