THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER
him again. He was looking at himself in a hand-mirror, and, as I entered, he looked up at me and said, “You’re right. I’m not twenty-one. I’m thirty-six.” It was quite pathetic to see him. He clung to my hand, but said very little . . . wouldn’t let me talk . . . he seemed afraid of what I might say. Once he asked after his father . . . you never knew him, I think, Kitty . . . a good man, though a little intolerant . . . but you can imagine how I felt at having to inform him that he passed away twelve years ago.
Jenny : Passed away! Good Lord, can’t you say he died?
Frank : Jenny . . . that’s just what Chris said.
Jenny : I’m not surprised.
Kitty : Please, please. Go on. Is there more?
Frank : Very little more.
Kitty : Did he speak of me . . . again?
Frank : Not for a long while. It seemed as though he could not bring himself to do so. He spoke of Jenny and this place, and at last, with an effort, he asked about you . . . what you were like. I did my best to describe you . . . you can imagine it was not easy for me . . . I did my best to make you out as attractive as possible, but———
[Jenny suddenly gives a yelp of almost hysterical laughter.
Jenny!
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