"But I have told you," he said rather wildly, "I am not idle. I do

certain things--not much, but of a degree of importance."

"You do not fight."

In Sara Lee's defense many things may be urged--her ignorance of modern

warfare; the isolation of her lack of knowledge of the language; but,

perhaps more than anything, a certain rigidity of standard that

comprehended no halfway ground. Right was right and wrong was wrong to

her in those days. Men were brave or were cowards. Henri was worthy

or unworthy. And she felt that, for all his kindness to her, he was

unworthy.

He could have set himself right with a word, at that. But his pride was

hurt. He said nothing except, when she asked if he had minded what she

said, to reply: "I am sorry you feel as you do. I am not angry."

He went away, however, without breakfast. Sara Lee heard his car going

at its usual breakneck speed up the street, and went to the door. She

would have called him back if she could, for his eyes haunted her. But

he did not look back.




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