“Maybe the war will be over. It can’t always go on.”

“I’ll get well,” I said. “Valentini will fix me.”

“He should with those mustaches. And, darling, when you’re going under the ether just think about something else⁠—not us. Because people get very blabby under an anaesthetic.”

“What should I think about?”

“Anything. Anything but us. Think about your people. Or even any other girl.”

“No.”

“Say your prayers then. That ought to create a splendid impression.”

“Maybe I won’t talk.”

“That’s true. Often people don’t talk.”

“I won’t talk.”