"Why, I'm bullying you into it!"
The First of January, 1917—the dawn to me, a broken derelict, of the annus mirabilis. Somehow, foolishly, illogically, I feel that it will be the annus mirabilis for my beloved country.
And come—after all—I am, in spite of my legs, a Man too of the Great War. I have lived in it, and worked in it, and suffered in it—and in it have I won a Great Thing.
So long as one's soul is sound—that is the Great Matter.
Just before we parted last night, I said to Betty:
"The beginning and end of all this business is that you're afraid of Marigold."
She started back indignantly.
"I'm not! I'm not!"
I laughed. "The Lady protests too much," said I.
The clock struck two. Marigold appeared at the door. He approached Betty.