"No, no; for God's sake, not that! It's still about Gerald."
"Well?"
"Wheeler, he's only got four weeks to live. Five at the outside."
"Now, now, girl; we've been all over that."
"He loves me, Wheeler, Gerald does."
"Yes?" dryly.
"It would be like doing something decent—the only decent thing I've done in all my life, Wheeler, almost like doing something for the war, the way these women in the pretty white caps have done, and you know we—we haven't turned a finger for it except to—to gain—if I was to—to marry Gerald for those few weeks, Wheeler. I know it's a—rotten sacrifice, but I guess that's the only kind I'm capable of making."
He sat squat, with his knees spread.
"You crazy?" he said.
"It would mean, Wheeler, his dying happy. He doesn't know it's all up with him. He'd be made happy for the poor little rest of his life. He loves me. You see, Wheeler, I was his first—his only sweetheart. I'm on a pedestal, he says, in his dreams. I never told you—but that boy was willing to marry me, Wheeler, knowing—some—of the things I am. He's always carried round a dream of me, you see—no, you wouldn't see, but I've been—well, I guess sort of a medallion that won't tarnish in his heart. Wheeler, for the boy's few weeks he has left? Wheeler?"