"It's the old distrust, Mr. Spencer," said Hutchinson, who had gone with
him to furnish figures and various data. "The Democrats are opposed to
capital. They're afraid of it. And the army thinks all civilians are on
the make--which is pretty nearly true."

He saw the Secretary of War, finally, and came away feeling better.
He had found there an understanding that a man may--even should--make
sacrifices for his country during war. But, although he carried away
with him the conviction that his offer would ultimately be accepted,
there was nothing actually accomplished. He sent Hutchinson back, and
waited for a day or two, convinced that his very sincerity must bring a
concrete result, and soon.

Then, lunching alone one day in the Shoreham, he saw Audrey Valentine at
another table. He had not seen her for weeks, and he had an odd moment
of breathlessness when his eyes fell on her. She was pale and thin,
and her eyes looked very tired. His first impulse was to go to her. The
second, on which he acted, was to watch her for a little, to fill his
eyes for the long months of emptiness ahead.

She was with a man in uniform, a young man, gay and smiling. He was
paying her evident court, in a debonair fashion, bending toward her
across the table. Suddenly Clayton was jealous, fiercely jealous.

The jealousy of the young is sad enough, but it is an ephemeral thing.
Life calls from many directions. There is always the future, and the
things of the future. And behind it there is the buoyancy and easy
forgetfulness of youth. But the jealousy of later years knows no such
relief. It sees time flying and happiness evading it. It has not
the easy self-confidence of the twenties. It has learned, too, that
happiness is a rare elusive thing, to be held and nursed and clung to,
and that even love must be won and held.