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“Marian dearest,” he said at last, “I’ve made up my mind about something—all alone, without asking you first, because if I’d asked you I’d have made it up wrong, no matter what you said. Marian, I’m going to the war.”

For just an instant the girl continued to gaze up at him, clearly not taking it in. Then her face flamed with eagerness.

“Oh, Stacey!” she cried, her eyes shining. “Oh, Stacey!”

But Stacey’s heart had all at once grown intolerably heavy with pain.

It is true that the very next instant Marian’s mouth drooped and she cried: “Oh, Stacey!” again in a different lower tone, and suddenly was in the young man’s arms and kissing him tenderly.

But, though Stacey was made dizzy with love, the pain endured. As long as he lived, he felt, he would remember that Marian’s first thought had been that he was going to be a hero; that he was going away from her into that horrid mess across the Atlantic, perhaps to be killed, only her second thought. This perception did not develop into criticism of Marian. Stacey was incapable of criticizing Marian. She was perfect. It was simply a wound—the first the war inflicted on him.