She thought she somehow recognized it, and crossed over. It was
McKean, smoking his everlasting pipe. Success having demanded some such
change, he had migrated to "The Albany," and she had not seen him for
some time. He had come to have a last look at the house--in case it
might happen to be the last. He was off to Scotland the next morning,
where he intended to "join up."
"But are you sure it's your particular duty?" suggested Joan. "I'm told
you've become a household word both in Germany and France. If we really
are out to end war and establish the brotherhood of nations, the work you
are doing is of more importance than even the killing of Germans. It
isn't as if there wouldn't be enough without you."
"To tell the truth," he answered, "that's exactly what I've been saying
to myself. I shan't be any good. I don't see myself sticking a bayonet
into even a German. Unless he happened to be abnormally clumsy. I tried
to shoot a rabbit once. I might have done it if the little beggar,
instead of running away, hadn't turned and looked at me.
Pages:
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392