she would do; she could only grind her teeth. Kittrell bent his head over his plate; his coffee choked him.
"Dearest," she said presently, in another tone, "tell me, how is he? Do you—ever see him? Will he win?"
"No, I never see him. But he'll win; I wouldn't worry."
"He used to come here," she went on, "to rest a moment, to escape from all this hateful confusion and strife. He is killing himself! And they aren't worth it—those ignorant people—they aren't worth such sacrifices."
He got up from the table and turned away, and then, realizing quickly, she flew to his side and put her arms about his neck and said:
"Forgive me, dearest, I didn't mean—only—"
"Oh, Edith," he said, "this is killing me. I feel like a dog."
"Don't dear; he is big enough, and good enough; he will understand."
"Yes; that only makes it harder, only makes it hurt the more."
That afternoon, in the car, he heard no talk but
