The crisis caught David in a tender mood. Stirrings of doubt concerning business and politics had died. This energy was being poured as fuel into the flame of Lois. As his energy bubbled up, there it went. There grew indifference for other things--for all things. Something in the casual technique of Lois kept the flame from spreading: sealed it in a tight place where it danced by itself, rather merrily than tragically: smartingly rather than to a sear. David went on with his affairs. His weekly salary had been raised five dollars. He left off going to food-pens for luncheon. The spirit of earning more made him careless about spending. He came to find Miss Lord less noxious and took to asking her to an occasional meal. He went to theater, read novels, liked his Aunt Lauretta. He tried to keep clear of Lois: but after all the pleasure of her company was far more real than the pain. He saw the Rennards frequently: but their apart opinions stayed apart, they did not merge with him. His emotions and his nerves were a blind swirl within a rigid life. Now, the call for volunteers. He was young and strong. Was it not his move to answer? He did not want to go. He was comfortable in his new indifference. Doubtless, the Cubans were not comfortable. But they were very far away. He brought his problem to Tom. He did not know what he wanted of his question. “Lord, man! Don’t be a fool.” David had never seen his friend so moved, so angry, so tenderly savage. Tom jumped from his seat and paced the room. His hands were fists. “David,” he stopped before him and spoke with a hot restraint, “I am ashamed of you. Why the Devil should _you_ want to go to War?” David was sprawling in a wide Morris chair. He curled up a little under this onslaught like a furry caterpillar. “Who is to go, if unmarried fellows like myself are not?” “Who is to go?” Tom blazed at him. “Who is to go? I’ll tell you. Loafers who have nothing better to do. Men who are so miserable in their jobs they’d die for a chance to get away. Men who are so miserable in their homes they’ll die if they can’t get away. Unmarried, healthy men? The very last, I tell you. Let the sick of heart and the sick of life go first. They’ll find the Cuban fever far more like a pleasant change.” “This is no time to be flippant.” “I am not flippant.” “Then you’re--you’re wrong. This is an unselfish war if ever there was one----” Tom’s smile choked him. “Well, darn it: we’re in it. We’ve got to see it through, however you may look at it.” David was sensitive enough to feel the deep concern which Tom’s cynicisms covered. This was why he stopped his words of protestation. Strange unease came to him with the feeling. Tom wanted him to stay, to live. Why should he stir against his friend because of that? Tom stormed, making his friendship clearer, showing his affection warmer; David grew colder, less convinced, almost spitefully set against him.