She was still for a second. Then: "I think that's splendid," she brought out. "Splendid. Of course, I knew you'd do it. It's the only thing that could be. I'm glad."
"Yes," the man spoke slowly. "It's the only thing that could be. There's nothing to keep me. My mother's dead. My father's husky and not old and my sisters are with him. There's nobody to suffer by my going."
"N-no," the girl agreed. "But—it's the fine thing to do just the same. You're thirty-two you see, and couldn't be drafted. That makes it rather great of you to go."
"Well," the man answered, "not so very great, I suppose, as it's what all young Americans are doing. I rather think it's one of those things, like spelling, which are no particular credit if you do them, but a disgrace if you don't."
"What a gray way of looking at it!" the girl objected. "As if all the country wasn't glorying in the boys who go! As if we didn't all stand [pg 142] back of you and crowd the side lines to watch you, bursting with pride. You know we all love you."
"Do you love me, Mary? Enough to marry me before I go?" His voice was low, but the girl missed no syllable. She had heard those words or some like them in his voice before.
"Oh, Jim," she begged, "don't ask me now. I'm not certain—yet. I—I couldn't get along very well without you. I care a lot. But—I'm not just sure it's—the way I ought to care to marry you."
As alone in the packed car as in a wood, the little drama went on and no one noticed. "I'm sorry, Mary." The tone was dispirited. "I could go with a lot lighter heart if we belonged to each other."
"Don't say that, Jim," she pleaded. "You make me out—a slacker. You don't want me to marry you as a duty?"
"Good Lord, no!"