“Forget it.”

“You didn’t believe it.”

“Aw, say now, what’s the use digging up ancient history?”

“You’d be right, Jimmie, not to believe it.  I haven’t lived up to what I said.”

“Oh Lord, honey!  What’s eating you now?  Come to the point.”

She would not meet his eyes, turning her head from him to hide lips that would quiver.  “Honey, it—­it ain’t coming off—­that’s all.  Not now—­anyways.”

“What ain’t?”

“Us.”

“Who?”

“You know what I mean, Jimmie.  It’s like everything the soldier boy on the corner just said.  I—­I saw you getting red clear behind your ears over it.  I—­I was, too, Jimmie.  It’s like that soldier boy was put there on that corner just to show me, before it was too late, how wrong I been in every one of my ways.  Us women who are helping to foster slackers.  That’s what we’re making of them—­slackers for life.  And here I been thinking it was your good I had in mind, when all along it’s been mine.  That’s what it’s been, mine!”

“Aw, now, Gert—­”

“You got to go, Jimmie.  You got to go, because you want to go and—­because I want you to go.”

“Where?”

“To war.”

He took hold of her two arms because they were trembling.  “Aw, now, Gert, I didn’t say anything complaining.  I—­”

“You did, Jimmie, you did, and—­and I never was so glad over you that you did complain.  I just never was so glad.  I want you to go, Jimmie.  I want you to go and get a man made out of you.  They’ll make a better job out of you than ever I can.  I want you to get the yellow streak washed out.  I want you to get to be all the things he said you would.  For every line he was talking up there, I could see my boy coming home to me some day better than anything I could make out of him, babying him the way I can’t help doing.  I could see you, honey-bee, coming back to me with the kind of lift to your head a fellow has when he’s been fighting to make the world a safe place for dem—­for whatever it was he said.  I want you to go, Jimmie.  I want you to beat the draft, too.  Nothing on earth can make me not want you to go.”

“Why, Gert—­you’re kiddin’!”

“Honey, you want to go, don’t you?  You want to square up those shoulders and put on khaki, don’t you?  Tell me you want to go!”

“Why—­why, yes, Gert, if—­”

“Oh, you’re going, Jimmie!  You’re going!”

“Why, girl—­you’re crazy!  Our flat!  Our furniture—­our—­”

“What’s a flat?  What’s furniture?  What’s anything?  There’s not a firm in business wouldn’t take back a boy’s furniture—­a boy’s everything—­that’s going out to fight for—­for dem-o-cracy!  What’s a flat?  What’s anything?”

He let drop his head to hide his eyes.

Do you know it is said that on the Desert of Sahara, the slope of Sorrento, and the marble of Fifth Avenue the sun can shine whitest?  There is an iridescence to its glittering on bleached sand, blue bay, and Carrara facade that is sheer light distilled to its utmost.