“Kitty,” he cried hoarsely, “look up at me!”
In amazement she obeyed. The clutch of his arms took her back twenty-five years. He saw the springtime blue of her eyes.
“Kitty,” he pleaded, “can you forgive me?”
“Forgive—you?” she stammered, not understanding.
“For making you think it matters a picayune what I have to eat. Little woman—little woman, we took Château-Thierry to-day!”
She drew back a little as though expecting evil news to follow. But the news had not yet come.
“We,” he repeated—“you and I and Ben and the Marines and Uncle Sam and God—all together. We not only held the beasts but drove them back. It’s in the papers to-night.”
“And Ben——” she faltered.
“He must have been there,” he answered.
“He—he——”