His feeling about death had always been that of a man who has long
years before him. He had rather jauntily conceded that some men die
young, but that the chances in his case were for a green old age. He
might indeed have fifty years before him, and in fifty years one
could--get ready--age had to do with serious things, people were
peaceful and prepared.
But to get ready now. To face the thing squarely, saying, "I may not
come back--there are, indeed, a thousand chances that I shall not
come." Lacking those fifty years in which to grow towards the thought
of dissolution, what ought one to do? Should a man make himself fit in
some special fashion?
There was, too, the thought of those whom he might leave behind. Of
Jean--his wife--whom he would leave. She would break her heart--at
first. And then--? Would she remember? Would she forget? Would he
and those millions of others who had gone down in battle become dim
memories--pale shadows against the vivid background of the hurrying
world?
He felt that he could not, must not speak of these things to Jean. So
he talked of them to Emily.
"If anything should happen to me," he said, "I couldn't, of course,
expect that Jean would go on--caring--.
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