queer."

"Now, now," he said, his voice hardening but trying to maintain a
chiding note; "you know what you promised after the chinchilla--no more
this year until--"

"No, no; for God's sake, not that! It's still about Gerald."

"Well?"

"Wheeler, he's only got four weeks to live. Five at the outside."

"Now, now, girl; we've been all over that."

"He loves me, Wheeler, Gerald does."

"Yes?" dryly.

"It would be like doing something decent--the only decent thing I've
done in all my life, Wheeler, almost like doing something for the war,
the way these women in the pretty white caps have done, and you know
we--we haven't turned a finger for it except to--to gain--if I was
to--to marry Gerald for those few weeks, Wheeler. I know it's a--rotten
sacrifice, but I guess that's the only kind I'm capable of making."

He sat squat, with his knees spread.

"You crazy?" he said.

"It would mean, Wheeler, his dying happy. He doesn't know it's all up