I was mighty glad to be alive. I couldn't see anything to mope
about,--certainly not after I found out I wasn't going to die."
"I daresay there were others who took it as you did. I wish there
could have been more."
He hesitated a moment before speaking again. Then he hazarded the
question:
"What does your friend, Dr. Strong, have to say about the general
run of such cases?"
"I don't know. I have not seen Dr. Strong since the war ended."
He looked mildly surprised. "Hasn't he been home since the war?"
"I believe so. I was away at the time."
"How long was he in France?"
"He went over first in 1916 and again in the fall of 1917, and
remained till the end of the war. His mother is here with me, you
know."
"Yes, I know. By Jove, I envy him one thing,--lucky dog." She
remained silent. "You were playmates, weren't you?"
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin slightly.
"Well, that's why I envy him. To have been your playmate,--Why,
I envy him every minute of his boyhood. When I think of my own
boyhood and how little there was to it that a real boy should have,
I--I--confound it, I almost find myself hating chaps like Strong,
chaps who lived in the country and had regular pals, and girl
sweethearts, and went fishing and hunting, and played hookey as it
ought to be played, and grew up with something fine and sweet and
wholesome to look back upon,--and to have had you for a playmate,--maybe
a sweetheart,--you in short frocks, with your hair in pigtails,
barefooted in summertime, running--"
She interrupted him.
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