“I’m going into camp tomorrow.”
That night there was a scene with Julie; she begged, cried, fainted. Dr. McClaren was sent for, the diagnosis was—Motherhood. Floyd did not volunteer.
All New York crowded the streets to bid Godspeed to the first regiment sailing for France. “Our Boys” with flowers in their caps, flowers stuck in their guns marched proudly. The people went mad.
Floyd, holding Julie tightly, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue. He had a feeling of depression; for the first time in his life a wish had been thwarted. He looked down at the curly head with its sport-hat pressed close to his arm, noticed the glances of admiration. She was worth the sacrifice. Suddenly with a well-directed aim, she flung a rose at a passing soldier. He caught it, pressed it to his lips with a long glance backward.
“That was Martin,” said Julie.
They walked home in silence. Julie had a headache from the noise and excitement and went to bed early.
Floyd sat up; he tried to think of Julie and the future. He couldn’t; the cheers were still in his ears, the tramping of feet, the clashing of cymbals. He sat there, out of it. Love was cruel....
The boy was christened by Father Cabello, his last service to the Gonzola family. He had been called to Rome, where honors awaited him, for his services to the Church in America.
“What name are you going to give him?” asked the Father.
Julie, lying in her white bed, answered: