“Don’t be afraid to talk it out, Gordon. You may tell me without fear of being misunderstood.”
“You bet I can!” cried the fellow thickly. “God bless you, Madge! What I started to say was, I can’t make up my mind which I ought to do—stay home and direct the making of shells or go to France and have a part in firing them off!”
“Which do you want to do, Gord?”
“I think I want to go to France, Madge. I know my job and all that. But—well, there ought to be lots of older chaps unfitted for active service who could do the home job as well as myself.”
“Then, Gordon,” said the woman, without an instant’s hesitation, “I’d go to France!”
Silence fell between them. It was broken by the man’s long sigh. He looked around the room.
“This used to be your mother’s chamber, wasn’t it, Madge—before she had the house done over? It was in this room I met you first.”
“You—as you are now, Gordon—were never that hot-headed little boor. Not only do I refuse to admit it, but I can’t conceive it. You’ve changed so, Gordon. You’re not the same fellow at all.”
He laughed a depreciating laugh.
“Well,” he said philosophically, “if that’s true, you know what I told you down in Boston a while ago. You and you alone have been responsible. ‘You made me what I am to-day—I hope you’re satisfied.’” And once more he laughed. But it was plain the laugh did not come from his heart.