"Yes," he answered. "I have to kill a man. Then I'm going to join up with the army."
Her hands were again upon him. "But you mustn't, Dave," she pleaded. "No matter—no matter what—you mustn't do that. That is the one thing you must not do."
"Edith, you are not a man. You don't understand. That is the one thing I must do."
"But you can't fight for your country, then. You will only increase its troubles in these troubled times. Don't think I'm pleading for him, Dave, but for you, for the sake of us—for the sake of those—who care."
He took her hands in his and raised them to his shoulders and drew her face close to his. Then, speaking very slowly, and with each word by itself, "Do you really care?" he said.
"Oh, Dave!"
"Then come to my room and talk to me. Talk to me! Talk to me! For God's sake talk to me. I must talk to some one."
She followed him. Inside the room he had himself under control again. The street lights flooded through the windows, so he did not press the switch. He motioned her to a chair.
And then he told her the story, all he knew.
When he had finished she arose and walked to one of the windows and stood looking with unseeing eyes upon the street. For the second time in his life Dave Elden had laid his heart bare to her, and again after all these years he still talked as friend to friend. That was it. She was under no delusion. Dave's eyes were as blind to her love as they had been that night when he had first told her of Irene Hardy. And she could not tell him. Most of all, she could not tell him now.… Yes, she was very sure of that. If she should tell him now—if she should let him know—he would turn to her in his grief. He would be clay in her hands. And afterwards he would despise her for having taken advantage of his hour of weakness. She had waited all these years, and still she must wait.