“Yes,” the man spoke slowly.  “It’s the only thing that could be.  There’s nothing to keep me.  My mother’s dead.  My father’s husky and not old and my sisters are with him.  There’s nobody to suffer by my going.”

“N-no,” the girl agreed.  “But—­it’s the fine thing to do just the same.  You’re thirty-two you see, and couldn’t be drafted.  That makes it rather great of you to go.”

“Well,” the man answered, “not so very great, I suppose, as it’s what all young Americans are doing.  I rather think it’s one of those things, like spelling, which are no particular credit if you do them, but a disgrace if you don’t.”

“What a gray way of looking at it!” the girl objected.  “As if all the country wasn’t glorying in the boys who go!  As if we didn’t all stand back of you and crowd the side lines to watch you, bursting with pride.  You know we all love you.”

“Do you love me, Mary?  Enough to marry me before I go?” His voice was low, but the girl missed no syllable.  She had heard those words or some like them in his voice before.

“Oh, Jim,” she begged, “don’t ask me now.  I’m not certain—­yet.  I—­I couldn’t get along very well without you.  I care a lot.  But—­I’m not just sure it’s—­the way I ought to care to marry you.”

As alone in the packed car as in a wood, the little drama went on and no one noticed.  “I’m sorry, Mary.”  The tone was dispirited.  “I could go with a lot lighter heart if we belonged to each other.”

“Don’t say that, Jim,” she pleaded.  “You make me out—­a slacker.  You don’t want me to marry you as a duty?”

“Good Lord, no!”

“I know that.  And I—­do care.  There’s nobody like you.  I admire you so for going—­but you’re not afraid of anything.  It’s easy for you, that part.  I suppose a good many are really—­afraid.  Of the guns and the horror—­all that.  You’re lucky, Jim.  You don’t give that a thought.”

The man flashed an odd look, and then regarded his hands joined on his knee.

“I do appreciate your courage.  I admire that a lot.  But somehow Jim there’s a doubt that holds me back.  I can’t be sure I—­love you enough; that it’s the right way—­for that.”

The man sighed.  “Yes,” he said.  “I see.  Maybe some time.  Heavens knows I wouldn’t want you unless it was whole-hearted.  I wouldn’t risk your regretting it, not if I wanted you ten times more.  Which is impossible.”  He put out his big hand with a swift touch on hers.  “Maybe some time.  Don’t worry,” he said.  “I’m yours.”  And went on in a commonplace tone, “I think I’ll show up at the recruiting office this afternoon, and I’ll come to your house in the evening as usual.  Is that all right?”

The car sped into Albany and the man went to her door with the girl and left her with few words more and those about commonplace subjects.  As he swung down the street he went over the episode in his mind, and dissected it and dwelt on words and phrases and glances, and drew conclusions as lovers have done before, each detail, each conclusion mightily important, outweighing weeks of conversation of the rest of the world together.  At last he shook his head and set his lips.