She still hoped, however. "I did, but the rest didn't."
He shrank from the things which she might tell him. "What did they
say?" His voice caught.
"I shan't tell you. But it was about the war, and your not fighting.
As if it made any difference. You are as brave as any of them."
He glanced down at her with somber eyes. Quite unreasonably he hated
her for her defense of him. If all women defended men who wouldn't
fight, what kind of a world would it be? Women who were worth anything
girded their men for battle.
He knew now the reason for Jean's high head and burning cheeks, and in
spite of his sense of agonizing humiliation, he was glad to think of
that high-held head.
For such women, for such women men died!
But not for women like Alma Drew!
He got away from her as soon as possible. He got away from them all.
He had a morbid sense of whispering voices and of averted glances. He
fancied that Mrs. Witherspoon touched his hand coldly as he bade her
"good-night."
Well, he would not come again until he could meet their eyes.
It was a perfectly clear night, and he walked home. With his face
turned up to the stars, he told himself that the situation was
intolerable--tomorrow morning, he would go to his father.
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