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ain’t I and you trying to help him? Suppose I did do something that ain’t exactly according to holy Hoyle: you know damn well that I can help him—if I don’t let a whole lot of don’ts stop me. And if I know I’m right there ain’t any don’ts or anything else going to stop me.”
    She looked at him and he hurried on:
    â€œI mean, you and I know what to do for him, but if you are always letting a gentleman don’t do this and a gentleman don’t do that interfere, you can’t help him. Do you see?”
    â€œBut what makes you so sure that she will turn him down?”
    â€œWhy, I tell you I seen that letter: all the old bunk about knights of the air and the romance of battle, that even the fat crying ones outgrow soon as the excitement is over and uniforms and being wounded ain’t only not stylish no more, but it is troublesome.”
    â€œBut aren’t you taking a lot for granted, not to have seen her, even?”
    â€œI’ve seen that photograph: one of them flighty-looking pretty ones with lots of hair. Just the sort would have got herself engaged to him.”
    â€œHow do you know it is still on? Perhaps she has forgotten him. And he probably doesn’t remember her, you know.”
    â€œThat ain’t it. If he don’t remember her he’s all right. But if he will know his folks he will want to believe that something in his world ain’t turned upside down.”
    They were silent a while, then Gilligan said: “I wish I could have knowed him before. He’s the kind of a son I would have liked to have.” He finished his drink.
    â€œJoe, how old are you?”
    â€œThirty-two, ma’am.”
    â€œHow did you ever learn so much about us?” she asked with interest, watching him.
    He grinned briefly. “It ain’t knowing, it’s just saying things. I think I done it through practice. By talking so much,” he replied with sardonic humour. “I talk so much I got to say the right thing sooner or later. You don’t talk much yourself.”
    â€œNot much,” she agreed. She moved carelessly and the blanket slipped entirely, exposing her thin nightdress; raising her arms and twisting her body to replace it her long shank was revealed and her turning ankle and her bare foot.
    Gilligan without moving said: “Ma’am, let’s get married.”
    She huddled quickly in the blanket again, already knowing a faint disgust with herself.
    â€œBless your heart, Joe. Don’t you know my name is Mrs.?”
    â€œSure. And I know, too, you ain’t got any husband. I dunno where he is or what you done with him, but you ain’t got a husband now.”
    â€œGoodness, I’m beginning to be afraid of you: you know too much. You are right: my husband was killed last year.”
    Gilligan looking at her said: “Rotten luck.” And she tasting again a faint, warm sorrow, bowed her head to her arched clasped knees.
    â€œRotten luck. That’s exactly what it was, what everything is. Even sorrow is a fake, now.” She raised her face, her pallid face beneath her black hair, scarred with her mouth. “Joe,
    that was the only sincere word of condolence I ever had. Come here.”
    Gilligan went to her and she took his hand, holding it against her against her cheek. Then she removed it, shaking back her hair.
    â€œYou are a good fellow, Joe. If I felt like marrying anybody now, I’d take you. I’m sorry I played that trick, Joe.”
    â€œTrick?” repeated Gilligan, gazing upon her black hair. Then he said Oh, non-committally.
    â€œBut we haven’t decided what to do with that poor boy in there,” she said with brisk energy, clasping her blanket. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Are you sleepy?”
    â€œNot me,” he answered. “I don’t think I ever want to sleep again.”
    â€œNeither do I.” She moved