"I fooled you. You think I'm a hero. And I'm not. I'm a--" for the life
of him he could not get out the word "coward." He went on: "I'm a blamed
baby." And he told her in a few words, yet plainly enough what he had
gone through in the long afternoon. "It was the kiddies who clinched it,
with their flags and their hair ribbons--and their Yankee boys. I
couldn't stand for--not playing square with them."

Suddenly he gripped her hands so that it hurt. "Mary, God help me, I'll
try to fight the devils over there so that kiddies like that, and--you,
and all the blessed people, the whole dear shooting-match will be safe
over here. I'm glad--I'm so glad I'm going to have a hand in it. Mary,
it's queer, but I'm happier than I've been in months. Only"--his brows
drew anxiously. "Only I'm scared stiff for fear you think me--a coward."

He had the word out now. Thee taste wasn't so bad after all; it seemed
oddly to have nothing to do with himself. "Mary, dear, couldn't
you--forget that in time? When I've been over there and behaved
decently--and I think I will. Somehow I'm not afraid of being afraid
now. It feels like a thing that couldn't be done--by a soldier of Uncle
Sam's. I'll just look at the other chaps--all heroes, you know--and be
so proud I'm with them and so keen to finish our job that I
know--somehow I _know_ I'll never think about my blooming self at all.
It's queer to say it, Mary, but the way it looks now I'm in it, it's not
just country even. It's religion. See, Mary?"

There was no sound, no glance from Mary. But he went on, unaware, so
rapt was he in his new illumination.

"And when I come back, Mary, with a decent record--just possibly with a
war-cross--oh, my word! Think of me! Then, couldn't you forget this