Stanley was simple.

If he believed in people--as he believed in her, for instance--it was with his whole heart.

He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie.

And how terribly he suffered if he thought any one--she--was not being dead straight, dead sincere with him! "This is too subtle for me!" He flung out the words, but his open, quivering, distraught look was like the look of a trapped beast.
But the trouble was--here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though Heaven knows it was no laughing matter--she saw her Stanley so seldom.
There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day.

And it was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger.