“How you put things, Carley!” exclaimed Eleanor, wearily. “Of course I care—when you make me think of such things. But what have I to do with the lives of people in the years to come?”
“Everything. America for Americans! While you dawdle, the life blood is being sucked out of our great nation. It is a man’s job to fight; it is a woman’s to save.... I think you’ve made your choice, though you don’t realize it. I’m praying to God that I’ll rise to mine.”
Carley had a visitor one morning earlier than the usual or conventional time for calls.
“He wouldn’t give no name,” said the maid. “He wears soldier clothes, ma’am, and he’s pale, and walks with a cane.”
“Tell him I’ll be right down,” replied Carley.
Her hands trembled while she hurriedly dressed. Could this caller be Virgil Rust? She hoped so, but she doubted.
As she entered the parlor a tall young man in worn khaki rose to meet her. At first glance she could not name him, though she recognized the pale face and light-blue eyes, direct and steady.
“Good morning, Miss Burch,” he said. “I hope you’ll excuse so early a call. You remember me, don’t you? I’m George Burton, who had the bunk next to Rust’s.”
“Surely I remember you, Mr. Burton, and I’m glad to see you,” replied Carley, shaking hands with him. “Please sit down. Your being here must mean you’re discharged from the hospital.”
“Yes, I was discharged, all right,” he said.