couldn't get along very well without you. I care a lot. But--I'm not
just sure it's--the way I ought to care to marry you."

As alone in the packed car as in a wood, the little drama went on and no
one noticed. "I'm sorry, Mary." The tone was dispirited. "I could go
with a lot lighter heart if we belonged to each other."

"Don't say that, Jim," she pleaded. "You make me out--a slacker. You
don't want me to marry you as a duty?"

"Good Lord, no!"

"I know that. And I--do care. There's nobody like you. I admire you so
for going--but you're not afraid of anything. It's easy for you, that
part. I suppose a good many are really--afraid. Of the guns and the
horror--all that. You're lucky, Jim. You don't give that a thought."

The man flashed an odd look, and then regarded his hands joined on his
knee.

"I do appreciate your courage. I admire that a lot. But somehow Jim
there's a doubt that holds me back. I can't be sure I--love you enough;
that it's the right way--for that."

The man sighed. "Yes," he said. "I see. Maybe some time. Heavens knows I
wouldn't want you unless it was whole-hearted. I wouldn't risk your
regretting it, not if I wanted you ten times more. Which is impossible."
He put out his big hand with a swift touch on hers. "Maybe some time.
Don't worry," he said. "I'm yours." And went on in a commonplace tone,
"I think I'll show up at the recruiting office this afternoon, and I'll