"At first they wrote! Ha! Ha!" burst out Maynard. "Sure, they wrote
love-sick letters. They sent socks and cigarettes and candy and books.
And they all wanted us to hurry back to marry them.... Then--when the
months had gone by and the novelty had worn off--when we went against
the hell of real war--sick or worn out, sleepless and miserable,
crippled or half demented with terror and dread and longing for
home--then, by God, they quit!"

"Oh, no, Blair--not all of them," remonstrated Lane, unsteadily.

"Well, old man, I'm sore, and you're about the only guy I can let out
on," explained Maynard, heavily. "One thing I'm glad of--we'll face it
together. Daren, we were kids together--do you remember?--playing on
the commons--straddling the old water-gates over the brooks--stealing
cider from the country presses--barefoot boys going to school
together. We played Post-Office with the girls and Indians with the
boys. We made puppy love to Dal and Mel and Helen and Margie--all of
them.... Then, somehow the happy thoughtless years of youth passed....
It seems strange and sudden now--but the war came. We enlisted. We
had the same ideal--you and I.--We went to France--and you know what
we did there together.... Now we're on this ship--getting into port of
the good old U.S.--good as bad as she is!--going home together. Thank
God for that. I want to be buried in Woodlawn.... Home! Home?... We
feel its meaning. But, Dare, we'll have no home--no place.... We are
old--we are through--we have served--we are done.... What we dreamed
of as glory will be cold ashes to our lips, bitter as gall.... You
always were a dreamer, an idealist, a believer in God, truth, hope and
womanhood. In spite of the war these somehow survive in you.... But
Dare, old friend, steel yourself now against disappointment and