It was capable of many interpretations--reproof, anger at fate,
polite disbelief, deprecation.
Jim tried to run away from his peculiar and most annoying emotions.
But Charity went with him. She looked back and said:
"Funny how the moon rides after us in her white limousine."
"Huh!" said Jim.
"Is that Mexican you're speaking?" she chided.
"I was just thinking," Jim growled.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing much--except what a ghastly shame it is that
so--so--well, I don't know what to call you--but well, a woman like
you--that you should be living alone with nothing better to do than
run the gantlet of those God-awful submarines and probably get blown
up and drowned, or, worse yet, spend your days breaking your heart
nursing a lot of poor mangled, groaning Frenchmen that get shot to
pieces or poisoned with gas or--Oh, it's rotten! That's all it is:
it's rotten!"
"Somebody has to take care of them."
"Oh, I know; but it oughtn't to be you. If there was any manhood
in this country, you'd have Americans to nurse."
"There are Americans over there, droves of them."
"Yes, but they're not wearing our uniform. We ought to be over
there under our own flag. I ought to be over there."
"Maybe you will be. I'll go on ahead and be waiting for you."
There is nothing more pitiful than sorrow that tries to smile,
and Jim groaned:
"Oh, Charity Coe! Charity Coe!"
He gripped the wheel to keep from putting his hand out to hers.
Pages:
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605