"I haven't said I won't fight. I said I wouldn't enlist, and I won't. I hate war. It's against every principle I've got. If I'm drafted I'll go into the damn thing as a private and if I find that shooting a gun or jabbing a bayonet into another fellow's guts is going to stop his doing the same to me I'll shoot and jab. I don't pretend to be fired with the martial spirit simply because a European nation, grown too big for its clothes, tried to grab off a new lot and failed in the first attempt." "I believe you're afraid." "Of course I'm afraid. Any man who says he isn't lies. I hate living in filth and mud and lice and getting an eye shot out. But that isn't my reason for not going, and you know it. I won't voluntarily further this thing." Charley did know it. She knew, too, that the instinct that made her want to send her man to war was a thing of low derivation yet terribly human. She did not say, definitely. "I can't marry a man who feels as you do." It was the first time in her life that she had lacked the courage to say definitely the thing she thought. But the family realised that the June wedding was no longer a thing to be combated. June came and went. The Hyde Park Boulevard apartment had not known the young poet for a month. Jesse Dick was called in the first draft. Charley kept doggedly at her work all summer, riding back and forth in the dirt and cinders of the I. C. trains. It was a summer of intense heat. Daily Charley threatened to appear at Shields' in her bathing suit or in one of the Greekest of her dancing costumes. But it was surprising to see how roselike she could look as she emerged after dinner in a last year's organdie. Everyone was dancing. Sometimes Charley went to the Midway Garden at the entrance to Washington Park or over to the old Bismarck (now known as the Marigold Gardens) there to dance and dine outdoors in the moonlight. Always she was squired by a dashing blue-and-gold or white duck uniform from the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, or olive-drab and shiny tan boots from Fort Sheridan. Jesse Dick came home just before he sailed for France. He wore an issue uniform which would have rendered grotesque a Captain Jinks or a D'Artagnan. The sleeves were too short; the collar too large; the jacket too brief. Spiral puttees wrapped his slim shanks. Army brogans--yellow--were on his feet. Bairnsfather's drawings had already achieved a popularity in America. Charley hung between laughter and tears when Jesse struck a pose and said, "Alf."