She sickened at it more in retrospect than in action, and tried to shake it from her mind by a change of subject.
“And what have you been up to, Jim?”
“Ah, nothing but the same old useless loafing. Been up in the North Woods for some hunting and fishing,” he snarled. His voice always grew contemptuous when he spoke of himself, but idolatrous when he spoke of her—as now when he asked: “I heard you had gone back abroad. But you're not going, are you?”
“Yes, as soon as I get my nerves a little steadier.”
“I won't let you go back!” He checked himself. He had no right to dictate to her. He amended to: “You mustn't. It's dangerous crossing, with all those submarines and floating mines. You've done your bit and more.”
“But there's so horribly much to do.”
“You've done enough. How many children have you got now?”
“About a hundred.”
“Holy mother!” he whispered, with a profane piety. “Can even you afford as big a family as that?”
“Well, I've had to call for some help.”