“I wish I would not, too, sir.”
“You might get killed, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you're a soldier! How long did you serve?”
“Shree years, sir.”
“And I don't know the first thing about soldiering! I ought to be ashamed of myself! Well—don't get killed, Jules.”
“Very good, sir.”
But he did.
Jules said, “Good night, sir,” and faded through the door. Dyckman tossed for a while. Then he got up in a rage at his insomnia. He could not find his other slipper, and he stubbed his toe plebeianly against an aristocratic table. He cursed and limped to the window and glowered down into the street. He might have been a jailbird gaping through iron bars. He could not get out of himself, or his love for Charity.
He wondered how he could live till morning without her. He went to his telephone to call her and hear her voice. He lifted the receiver and when Central answered, the cowardice of decency compelled him from his resolve, and he shamefully mumbled: