the left wing
with the house, she could see through into the living room where Jean
sat with her lover.

There was much dark wood and the worn red velvet--low bookshelves
lining the walls, a grand piano on a cover by the window. In the
dimness Jean's copper head shone like the halo of a saint. Mary
decided that Derry was "queer-looking," until gathering courage, she
went in and was warmed by his smile.

"He hasn't had any lunch, Mary," Jean told her, "and he wouldn't let me
get any for him."

"I'll have something in three whisks of a lamb's tail," said Mary with
Elizabethan picturesqueness, and away she went on her hospitable
mission.

"Marrying just now," said Derry, picking up the subject, where he had
dropped it, when Mary came in, "is out of the question."

"Did you think that I was marrying you for your money?"

"No. But two months' pay wouldn't buy a gown like this,"--he lifted a
fold with his forefinger--"to say nothing of your little shoes." He
dropped his light tone. "Oh, my dear, can't you see?"

"No. I can't see. Daddy would let us have this house, and I have a
little money of my own from my mother, and--and the Connollys would
take care of everything, and we should see the spring come, and the
summer."

He rose and went and stood with his back to the fire. "But I shan't be
here in the spring and summer."

She clasped her hands nervously. "Derry, I don't want you to go."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I do. At least not yet. We can be married--and have just a
little, little month or two--and then I'll let you go--truly."

He shook his head. "I've stayed out of it long enough. You wouldn't
want me to stay out of it any longer, Jean-Joan."

"Yes, I should. Other men can go, but I want to keep you--it's bad
enough to give--Daddy--. I haven't anybody. Mary Connolly has her
husband, but I haven't anybody--" her voice broke--and broke again--.

He came over and knelt beside her. "Let me tell you something," he
said. "Do you remember the night of the Witherspoon dinner? Well,
that night you cut me dead because you thought I was a coward--and I
thanked God for the women who hated cowards."

"But you weren't a coward."

"I know, and so I could stand it--could stand your scorn and the scorn
of the world. But what if I stayed out of it now, Jean?

"What if I stayed out of it now? You and I could have our little
moment of happiness, while other men fought that we might have it