"Will you come up and let me tell you about it, Clay?"

"I don't see how that will help any."

"It will help me."

He laughed at that; her new humility was so unlike her.

"Why, of course I'll come, Audrey," he said, and as he rang off he was
happier than he had been all day.

He was coming. Audrey moved around the little room, adjusting chairs,
rearranging the flowers that had poured in on New-year's day, brushing
the hearth. And as she worked she whistled. He would be getting into the
car now. He would be so far on his way. He would be almost there. She
ran into her bedroom and powdered her nose, with her lips puckered,
still whistling, and her heart singing.

But he scolded her thoroughly at first.

"Why on earth did you do it," he finished. "I still can't understand.
I see you one day, gravity itself, a serious young woman--as you are
to-day. And then I hear--it isn't like you, Audrey."

"Oh yes, it is. It's exactly like me. Like one me. There are others, of
course."

She told him then, making pitiful confession of her own pride and her
anxiety to spare Chris's name.

"I couldn't bear to have them suspect he had gone to the war because of
a girl. Whatever he ran away from, Clay, he's doing all right now."