Gloria was in trouble. Oh, the thing wasn't
feasible--yet--he saw himself in khaki, leaning, as all war
correspondents lean, upon a heavy stick, portfolio at shoulder--trying
to look like an Englishman. "I'd like to think it over," he, confessed.
"It's certainly very kind of you. I'll think it over and I'll let
you know."
Thinking it over absorbed him on the journey to New York. He had had one
of those sudden flashes of illumination vouchsafed to all men who are
dominated by a strong and beloved woman, which show them a world of
harder men, more fiercely trained and grappling with the abstractions of
thought and war. In that world the arms of Gloria would exist only as
the hot embrace of a chance mistress, coolly sought and quickly
forgotten....
These unfamiliar phantoms were crowding closely about him when he
boarded his train for Marietta, in the Grand Central Station. The car
was crowded; he secured the last vacant seat and it was only after
several minutes that he gave even a casual glance to the man beside him.
When he did he saw a heavy lay of jaw and nose, a curved chin and small,
puffed-under eyes. In a moment he recognized Joseph Bloeckman.
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