“So you’re really going to make it a kind of business?”
She spread her hands apart, palms outward.
“What else can I do? I assure you it isn’t any desire for publicity or that sort of thing. I’m just—I’m just driven on. It’s like what some one says in the Bible—I’ve taken to reading the Bible lately—it seems the only thing big enough in spirit to go with the big times—but some one says there: ‘Woe unto me, if I preach not the gospel!’ Well, it’s the same way with me. Woe unto me if I don’t do this thing! It’s taken possession of me; I can’t do anything else; and so I’m going back—”
I was expressing but one of the host of thoughts that crowded on me as I said: “You’ve got the tremendous advantage of being an American. You can say what you like. If I were—”
She stood off and surveyed me. “You don’t need to say anything. You speak for yourself. One has only to look at you.”
I smiled ruefully. “I know I’m pretty well battered up.”
“Oh, it isn’t that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just—it’s just everything. You’re a type. I’m not speaking of you personally, but of a lot—hundreds—thousands—I’ve seen—young fellows who make me think of some other words in the Bible.”
“What are they?”