“Poor boy!  Poor, poor boy!”

“Gerald’s like that.  So—­so full of faith.  And, Wheeler, he thinks he’s going to get well and lead a useful life like they teach the blind to do.  He reminds me of one of those Greek statues down at the Athens Cafe.  You know—­broken.  That’s it; he’s a broken statue.”

“Poor fellow!  Poor fellow!  Do something for him.  Buy the finest fruit in the town for him.  Send a case of wine.  Two.”

“I—­I think I must be torn to pieces inside, Wheeler, the way I’ve cried.”

“Poor little girl!”

“Wheeler?”

“Now, now,” he said; “taking it so to heart won’t do no good.  It’s rotten, I know, but worrying won’t help.  Got me right upset, too.  Come, get it off your mind.  Let’s take a ride.  Doll up; you look a bit peaked.  Come now, and to-morrow we’ll buy out the town for him.”

“Wheeler?” she said.  “Wheeler?”

“What?”

“Don’t look, Wheeler.  I’ve something else to ask of you—­something 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 with him.  He’d be made happy for the poor little rest of his life.  He loves me.  You see, Wheeler, I was his first—­his only sweetheart.  I’m on a pedestal, he says, in his dreams.  I never told you—­but that boy was willing to marry me, Wheeler, knowing—­some—­of the things I am.  He’s always carried round a dream of me, you see—­no, you wouldn’t see, but I’ve been—­well, I guess sort of a medallion that won’t tarnish in his heart.  Wheeler, for the boy’s few weeks he has left?  Wheeler?”

“Well, I’ll be hanged!”

“I’m not turning holy, Wheeler.  I am what I am.  But that boy lying out there—­I can’t bear it!  It wouldn’t make any difference with us—­afterward.  You know where you stand with me and for always, but it would mean the dying happy of a boy who fought for us.  Let me marry that boy, Wheeler.  Let his light go out in happiness.  Wheeler?  Please, Wheeler?” He would not meet her eyes.  “Wheeler?”