"Oh, Allen," she cried breathlessly, "I'll write you all the time, dear, every day—"
But he had caught both her hands in his and was drawing her irresistibly toward him.
"'Dear,'" he was repeating dizzily, incredulously. "Did you call me that, Betty? Did you say 'dear'?"
"Y-yes," she nodded, breathless, a little frightened, yet adorably brave. Why, this was Allen, and he was going away! He might be killed over there! She might never see him again! "And," she added, looking up into his eyes with a shy recklessness, "I—I'd say it again, Allen, if you asked me—"
With a little cry he drew her to him, and for one unbelievable, breathless second his lips rested on hers.
"Betty, Betty, I love you," he whispered unsteadily. "I'll be dreaming of you always. Whatever I do 'over there' will be because of you—" The whistle shrieked a rude warning and his hands tightened on hers. They were both trembling a little.
"Good-bye," he whispered hoarsely. "I—love—you—" then he tore himself away, swinging up the steps and into the car.
The train began to move amid a great storm of cheering and waving of service hats. Betty saw it all dimly, through a mist of tears. She pressed her hand against her lips to still their trembling.
"Good-bye, dear," she murmured brokenly.