"More than in anything for years."
She had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without reason—but, still, she resented it.
"Think of it," Crittenden went on. "It is the first time in my life, almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something—to have a purpose—that was not inspired by you." It was an unconscious and rather ungracious declaration of independence—it was unnecessary—and Judith was surprised, chilled—hurt.
"When do you go?"
Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket.
"To-morrow morning. I got this just as I was leaving town."
"To-morrow!"
"It means life or death to me—this telegram. And if it doesn't mean life, I don't care for the other. I shall come out with a commission or—not at all. If dead, I shall be a hero—if alive," he smiled, "I don't know what I'll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with my past and my present. I can feel a change already, a sort of growing pain, at the very thought."
"When do you go to Cuba?"
"Within four days."