and filing of applications. She was so weak from crying that a nurse was
called finally to help her through the corridors to her car.

Gerald's left lung was burned out and he had three, possibly four, weeks
to live.

All the way home, in her tan limousine with the little yellow curtains,
she sat quite upright, away from the upholstery, crying down her
uncovered face, but a sudden, an exultant determination hardening in her
mind.

* * * * *

That night a strange conversation took place in the Riverside Drive
apartment. She sat on Wheeler's left knee, toying with his platinum
chain, a strained, a rather terrible pallor out in her face, but the
sobs well under her voice, and its modulation about normal. She had been
talking for over two hours, silencing his every interruption until he
had fallen quite still.

"And--and that's all, Wheeler," she ended up. "I've told you everything.
We were never more than just--friends--Gerald and me. You must take my
word for it, because I swear it before God."

"I take your word, Hester," he said, huskily.

"And there he lies, Wheeler, without--without any eyes in his head. Just
as if they'd been burned out by irons. And he--he smiles when he talks.
That's the awful part. Smiles like--well, I guess like the angel he--he
almost is. You see, he says it's a glory to carry the wounds of his