302
THE STAR IN THE WINDOW
following summer. War! How he would hate it—fighting—roughness. He had had so much of it in his life. He smiled bitterly, as he contemplated the remote possibility, gazing down at the ring in his hand.
"Suppose I should go over to France—just suppose," he said, toying with the idea, "and suppose I never came back! Muddle things up for Rebecca? I don't think so."
He clasped his hand over the wedding-ring, clenched it tight. Oh, had she forgotten completely those dark hours in the theater?
