"Where did you get that picture, Joe?" she asked.
"It was an illustration," he said, "for a thing I once had in a magazine." And then as though almost forgetting us all, his eyes still upon those immigrant faces, he said with a slow, rough intensity:
"I know every figure in it. I know just where they're strong and where each one of 'em is weak. I've never made gods out of 'em. But I know they do all the real work in the world. They're the ones who get all the rotten deals, the ones who get shot down in wars and worked like dogs in time of peace. They're the ones who are ready to go out on strike and risk their lives to change all this. They're the people worth spending your life with. But it's a job for your whole life—and before a man or a woman jumps in they want to be sure they're ready."
He did not look at Sue as he spoke. He seemed barely able to hold himself in. His relief was plain when we took her away.
Sue took a car to Brooklyn and we started homeward. Eleanore wanted to walk for a while. She walked quickly, her face set.
"What do you think of it?" I asked.
"I wasn't thinking of Sue," she said. "I was thinking of Mrs. Marsh. I've never tormented a woman like that and I never will again in my life—not for Sue or anyone else—she can marry anybody she likes!"
"Well, she won't marry Joe," I said. "Did you see his face—poor devil? You've certainly settled that affair."
"Have I?" she asked sharply. And then her curious feminine mind took a long leap. "And what are you going to be," she asked, "in a year from now?" I smiled at her.
"Not a second Marsh," I said. "But even if I were the man in the moon, you'd make a success of being my wife."