II + 

“He was killed instantly,” said Agnes. “He was shot in the trenches. He was shot through the head. This German saw it happen.” She handed Jane a creased and wrinkled paper. It was the letter of the Prussian officer, written in perfect English, in a fine German hand, on a sheet of plain block paper. Jane took it in silence. She was sitting beside Agnes on the battered davenport sofa of the Greenwich Village flat. Little Agnes was playing in the nursery beyond the half-open folding doors. It was Saturday afternoon and Agnes had just come home from Macy’s. She was still wearing her new black serge street coat. She had not even taken off her hat. The sheer black chiffon of the widow’s veil, thrown carelessly over it, shadowed her weary eyes. + 

“He saw him buried,” went on Agnes tonelessly, though Jane was reading the letter. It was as if she could not make herself stop talking about it. “He saw him buried next day. There can’t be any mistake.” + 

Jane went on reading the letter in silence. + 

“It was nice of the French to let him mail that letter, wasn’t it, Jane?” said Agnes. “Otherwise I might never have known what happened. I might never have known that he had gone to war.” + 

Jane, having finished the letter, sat turning it over in her hands. + 

“Jane,” said Agnes suddenly, “Why did he do it? Why did he go to war?” + 

Jane still sat staring at the finished letter. + 

“I suppose,” she said a little huskily, “I suppose he⁠—he was just caught up in the general excitement.” + 

“But that wasn’t like Jimmy,” said Agnes earnestly. “General excitements always left Jimmy cold. There was nothing that Jimmy despised more than the mob spirit. Why, Jimmy was a pacifist⁠—as much as he was anything⁠—” Her voice trailed off into silence. + 

Jane looked slowly up at her. Agnes’s sad, worn face was twitching and her throat was throbbing convulsively with the sobs she was trying to master. Jane took her hand in hers. + 

“Don’t⁠—don’t think about that, Agnes,” she said simply. “It won’t do any good. You’ll never know.” + 

“No,” said Agnes, “I’ll never know.” Then, after a pause, “Jane, you saw what he said about Jimmy’s concerto⁠—that he had it with him at the front.” + 

“Yes,” said Jane. + 

“It⁠—it must be lost,” said Agnes sadly. “They fought over that trench for days after Jimmy⁠—died. The dugouts must have been simply exterminated.” + 

“Yes,” said Jane. + 

“Jane,” said Agnes, “did you ever hear the end of it? Did he play it for you?” + 

“Yes,” said Jane. + 

“Was it good?” asked Agnes eagerly. “Was it really good?” + 

“I thought it was very beautiful,” said Jane. + 

Again they sat in silence. + 

“Jane,” said Agnes suddenly, “isn’t it dreadful to think there’s nothing left of Jimmy? With all his cleverness and all his talent he left nothing behind him. The world is just the same as if he had never lived.” + 

“He left you,” said Jane tremulously. “He left you and little Agnes.” + 

“Yes,” said Agnes, “of course he left little Agnes. And he left me. You’re right, Jane. He left me a very different woman than if he’d never loved me. You’re very clever, Jane, darling, to think of that. A man does live in the change he made in the life of a woman who loved him⁠—” + 

“Yes,” said Jane. + 

Again there was silence. Again it was Agnes who broke it. And this time with a gallant attempt at a cheerful smile. + 

“I haven’t thanked you, Jane, for all you did for Jimmy last winter. He simply loved Chicago. He was awfully happy there. He wrote me the gayest letters.” + 

“I’m glad he did,” said Jane. + 

“He was happy in his work and happy about the concerto. He seemed so young, Jane, and somehow carefree⁠—just the way he did when I first knew him. He wrote me very often⁠—and always such funny letters.” + 

“No one could be as funny as Jimmy,” said Jane. + 

“No,” said Agnes. “He was always funny when he was happy. Do you know, Jane, I’ve always understood why he didn’t come back to me? I understood it even at the time. The strongest thing in Jimmy’s life was his sense of adventure. I think those months in Chicago must have seemed rather adventurous, after the years with me and little Agnes in this flat. That seems absurd to you and me, of course, for to us Chicago is just the town we grew up in⁠—but to Jimmy I think it must have been rather a castle in Spain. He couldn’t come back to humble domesticity just after it. He had to wander. To look for other castles, you know, in other countries. But he would have come back, Jane⁠—” Her voice trailed off a trifle wistfully. + 

“Of course he would have!” said Jane warmly. + 

“The thing that kills me,” said Agnes soberly, “is that if he had, you know, our life might have been quite different. My play’s doing awfully well, Jane. They’re going to start a second company on the road. I’m going to take a chance, Jane, and resign from Macy’s to write another. I think⁠—I think that perhaps I can really make a lot of money. Enough to have changed everything for Jimmy⁠—” + 

“Agnes,” said Jane solemnly, “you’re perfectly wonderful.” + 

“No, I’m not,” said Agnes. “I’m just a worker.” + 

“You’re always right,” said Jane. + 

“But not wonderful,” smiled Agnes. “Jimmy was wonderful. And always wrong. Oh, Jane!” Agnes’s smile was very tremulous. “Wouldn’t you know that Jimmy would fight with the Germans and die a hero’s death on the wrong side of the Marne? Jimmy was on the wrong side of every Marne from the day he was born!” + 

“But always wonderful,” smiled Jane. “And always the hero.” + 

“To me,” said Agnes gently. + 

“To me, too,” said Jane. + 