"You're one of the people I owe money to."
Wandel had taken George's hint, evidently. George was sorry he had ever let it drop. But was he? Mightn't it be as well in the end? In spite of all this talk of people's leaving their bones in France, there was a fair chance that both Dalrymple and he would bring theirs, unaltered, back to America.
"Don't worry," George said. "I shan't press you."
"Handsome enough," Dalrymple thanked him in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "But everybody isn't that decent. It's this talk of the division sailing that's turned them nasty."
George fingered a pamphlet about poison gases. He didn't much blame debtors for turning nasty.
"You want to borrow some more money from me," he said.
Dalrymple's face lightened.
"If you'd be that good; but it's a lot."
"Why," George asked, quietly, "don't you go to someone you're closer to?"
Dalrymple flushed. He wouldn't meet George's eyes.