"Not if. I am going," he interrupted.
"Oh, so you say," returned Lenore, softly. And she felt deep in her the inception of a tremendous feminine antagonism. It stirred along her pulse. "Have your own way, then. But I say, if you go, think how fine it will be for me to get letters from you at the front—and to write you!"
"You'd like to hear from me?… You would answer?" he asked, breathlessly.
"Assuredly. And I'll knit socks for you."
"You're—very good," he said, with strong feeling.
Lenore again saw his eyes dim. How strangely sensitive he was! If he exaggerated such a little kindness as she had suggested, if he responded to it with such emotion, what would he do when the great and marvelous truth of her love was flung in his face? The very thought made Lenore weak.
"You'll go to training-camp," went on Lenore, "and because of your wonderful physique and your intelligence you will get a commission. Then you'll go to—France." Lenore faltered a little in her imagined prospect. "You'll be in the thick of the great battles. You'll give and take. You'll kill some of those—those—Germans. You'll be wounded and you'll be promoted.… Then the Allies will win. Uncle Sam's grand army will have saved the world.… Glorious!… You'll come back—home to us—to take the place dad offered you.… There! that is the bright side."
Indeed, the brightness seemed reflected in Dorn's face.
"I never dreamed you could be like this," he said, wonderingly.
"Like what?"