A window of birds took his fancy. The poor things, trying to sleep in the night light, were tucked uncomfortably about their cages, while their soft breasts and wings attracted to the feather shop possible buyers. The Inger looked at them, thinking. He turned excitedly.
“I get you about that red bird,” he cried, “when you said not kill it! Well, there wasn’t any reason for killin’ the red bird—not any real reason. I don’t blame you for rowin’ at it. But can’t you see that killin’ men in war is differ’nt?”
She looked upon him with sudden attention. While he was being directed to their street, she stood thinking about what he had said.
“Is that the way you felt about it when you first said you was going to the war?” she asked when he joined her.
“Gosh, no,” he replied almost reverently. “All I been wantin’ to go to war for was to raise hell—legitimate. Don’t you see no differ’nce?” he repeated.
It was then that she began to understand what a mighty thing had happened to him. Her insistence that war was merely killing, was merely murder, had done violence to his new idealism. And without the skill to correlate her impressions of this, she divined that here was something which was showing her, once more, the measure of this man. And she saw, too, that now she should not fail him.
She could say nothing, but as they crossed the street to the station, she suddenly slipped her hand within his great swinging arm.
He caught at her hand with a passion that amazed her. As his own closed over hers, she drew breathlessly away again.
“Oh,” she said. “Maybe it’s late. We didn’t hurry....”