For one thing there's that butterfly he's married to.

He's never said as much as half a word about her to me, but the look that came into his eyes when he saw her the night I told you about,--I'd be run over by a train for it any time.

He's a man alright and wants love as bad as I do.

I know that, but sometimes, when I watch his face, when neither of us is talking, there's a queer smile on it, like a man who's looking up at somebody, and he sets his jaw and squares his shoulders just as if he had heard a voice telling him to play straight.

Many times I've seen it, Irene, and after that I have to begin all over again.