Dyckman realized that he was about
to lose Jules, and he felt more disconsolate. Still, he surprised
himself by breaking out:
"I wish you wouldn't go to the war, Jules."
Jules smiled with friendship and deference subtly blended:
"I wish I would not, too, sir."
"You might get killed, you know."
"Yes, sir."
"So you're a soldier! How long did you serve?"
"Shree years, sir."
"And I don't know the first thing about soldiering! I ought to be
ashamed of myself! Well--don't get killed, Jules."
"Very good, sir."
But he did.
Jules said, "Good night, sir," and faded through the door. Dyckman
tossed for a while. Then he got up in a rage at his insomnia. He
could not find his other slipper, and he stubbed his toe plebeianly
against an aristocratic table. He cursed and limped to the window
and glowered down into the street. He might have been a jailbird
gaping through iron bars. He could not get out of himself, or his
love for Charity.
He wondered how he could live till morning without her. He went to
his telephone to call her and hear her voice. He lifted the receiver
and when Central answered, the cowardice of decency compelled him
from his resolve, and he shamefully mumbled:
"The correct time, please."
What difference did it make to him what hour it was? He was the
victim of eternity, not time.
He went back to his window-vigil over nothing and fell asleep
murmuring the biggest swear words he could remember.
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