"You could have been captured by the Boches. We can find a way, when you let me have my uniform."
Jim Horton grinned unsympathetically.
"There are two wounds in that too, Harry," he said. "Where are yours?"
And he moved toward the door.
"Listen, Jim. We'll let things be as they are for the present. Barry Quinlevin mustn't know—you've got to play the part. I see. Come and sit down a minute."
His brother obeyed mechanically.
"Well," he said.
"I'll do what you say—until—until we can think of something." He tried a smile and failed. "I know it's a good deal to ask you—to take my place—to go out into the world and be what I am, but you won't have to do it. You won't have to. We'll manage something—some way. You go back to the studio——" he paused uncertainly, "You're not——?" he paused.
Jim Horton read his meaning.
"Making love to your wife? And if I was, it would only be what you deserve. She doesn't love you any too much, as it is."