“Well—thinking of Elinor—I'm not too darn sure I didn't,” from Ted, dejectedly.
“That comes of being born in New England and that's all there is to it. Anyhow, it's over now, isn't it?”
“Not exactly—it comes back.”
“Well, kick it every time it does.”
“But you don't understand. That and—people like Elinor—” says Ted hopelessly.
“I do understand.”
“You don't.” And this time Ted's face has the look of a burned man.
“Well—” says Oliver, frankly puzzled. “Well, that's it. Oh, it doesn't matter. But if there was another war—”
“Oh, leave us poor people that are trying to write a couple of years before you dump us into heroes' graves by the Yang tse Kiang!”
“Another war—and bang! into the aviation.” Ted muses, his face gone thin with tensity. “It could last as long as it liked for me, providing I got through before it did; you'd be living anyhow, living and somebody, and somebody who didn't give a plaintive hoot how things broke.”