"It isn't that you don't love me. I think you do. But I've been
thinking things over. It isn't only to-night, or what you just said.
It's because we don't care for the same things, or believe in them."
"But--if we love each other--"
"It's not that, either. I used to feel that way. A home, and some one
to care about, and a little pleasure and work."
"That ought to be enough, honey."
He was terrified. His anger was gone. He placed an appealing hand on
her arm, and as she stood there in the faint starlight the wonder of her
once again got him by the throat. She had that sort of repressed
eagerness, that look of being poised for flight, that had always made
him feel cheap and unworthy.
"Isn't that enough, honey?" he repeated.
"Not now," she said, her eyes turned toward the east. "These are great
days, Harvey. They are greater and more terrible than any one can know
who has not been there. I've been there and I know. I haven't the
right to all this peace and comfort when I know how things are going
over there."
Down the quiet street of the little town service was over. The last
hymn had been sung. Through the open windows came the mellow sound of
the minister's voice in benediction, too far away to be more than a
tone, like a single deep note of the organ.
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