There was a look on his face which she had not seen since his return. Uplifted, eager. A light in his eyes, like the light which had shone in the eyes of a boy.
She found it difficult to speak. “My dear, the books are yours. Do as you think best.”
He leaned over and kissed her, lifting her a bit. There was energy as well as affection in the quick caress. She drew herself away laughing, breathless. “How strong you are.”
“Am I? Well, I think I am. And I am going to conquer the world, Mumsie.”
His exaltation lasted during the reading of the diary. It was a fat little book, and the pages were written close in his fine firm script. He found things between the leaves—a four-leaved clover Jane had sent him when he made the football team. A rose, colorless and dry. Florence Preston had given it to him.
He dropped the rose in the waste-basket. How could he ever have thought of Florence? Love wasn’t a thing of blue eyes and pale gold hair. It was a thing of fire and flame and fighting.
Fighting! That was it. With your back to the wall—and winning!
For some day he meant to win Jane. Did she think she could be in the world and not be his? And if she loved strength she should have it. He bent his head in his hands—his hands clasped tensely. There was a prayer in his heart. His whole being ached with the agony of his effort.
“Oh, God, let me fight and win. Bring me back to the full measure of a man.”