It was clear to Sara Lee from the beginning of the evening that Harvey
did not intend to hear her story. He did not say so; indeed, for a time
he did not talk at all. He sat with his arms round her, content just to
have her there.

"I have a lot of arrears to make up," he said. "I've got to get used to
having you where I can touch you. To-night when I go upstairs I'm going
to take that damned colorless photograph of you and throw it out the
window."

"I must tell you about your photograph," she ventured. "It always stood
on the mantel over the stove, and when there was a threatened bombardment
I used to put it under--"

"Let's not talk, honey."

When he came out of that particular silence he said abruptly: "Will Leete is dead."

"Oh, no! Poor Will Leete."

"Died of pneumonia in some God-forsaken hole over there. He's left a
wife and nothing much to keep her. That's what comes of mixing in the
other fellow's fight. I guess we can get the house as soon as we want
it. She has to sell; and it ought to be a bargain."

"Harvey," she said rather timidly, "you speak of the other fellow's
fight. They say over there that we are sure to be drawn into it sooner
or later."