"You poor blind dub of a husband," he said with his old affectionate smile, "she's making you love her all the more. You're anchored worse than ever. You can't go over to Europe and take a chance at being shot. Don't you see the hole you're in? You've got to care what happens to you."
"I'm not so sure of that, Joe," I said. "Things in this world are changing so fast that it's hard for any man in it to tell where he'll be in a year from now—or even a few short months from now. It's the year that no man can see beyond."
"You mean you're coming over?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. Just now I'm going to finish this book. I'm going to see Eleanore through till the baby is born. But after that—if over in Europe the people rise against this war—I don't just see how I can keep out."
Joe looked at me queerly. And with a curious gruffness,
"I hope you will keep out," he said. "There aren't many women like your wife."
He pulled an old grip from under his bed and began throwing in a few books and clothes. From a drawer he swept a few colored shirts, some underclothes and a small revolver.
"J. K.," I said, "I've been thinking about us. And I think our youth is gone."
"What's youth?" asked Joe indifferently.
"Youth," I replied, "is the time when you can think anything, feel anything and go anywhere."