She loved him so, that when he went away to a little war in which his country was interested she could not understand, nor quite forgive.

As the correspondent of a newspaper, Chesterton had looked on at other wars; when the yellow races met, when the infidel Turk spanked the Christian Greek; and one he had watched from inside a British square, where he was greatly alarmed lest he should be trampled upon by terrified camels.  This had happened before he and she had met.  After they met, she told him that what chances he had chosen to take before he came into her life fell outside of her jurisdiction.  But now that his life belonged to her, this talk of his standing up to be shot at was wicked.  It was worse than wicked; it was absurd.

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