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He was moved by her kindness and murmured his gratitude.

“But I don’t really know,” she went on, “what it is I want to say. Nothing, perhaps. Certainly nothing that is clear. The world is a welter of confusion.”

He nodded assent, feeling closely and comfortingly drawn to this middle-aged woman who had always seemed aloof to him before.

Mrs. Latimer did not speak again for several minutes. “How do I know what war does?” she continued at last. “How should you know, for that matter? But, Stacey, if it changes you in odd deep ways that you can’t conceive of now—nor I, either—don’t, please don’t, suffer too much and blame yourself for the changes. There’ll be so much suffering you’ll have to go through anyway that it would be a pity to add to it unnecessarily.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I understand, Mrs. Latimer.”

“How in the world should you?” she replied. “I don’t, either. I only feel something rather vaguely. But there is one thing clear, my dear boy. I want you to be certain that you have a sincere affectionate friend in me, who will always try her puzzled best to understand you sympathetically. And that was really all I had to say.”