hare what is known as the larger horizon of the male. One way is
through sacrifice. They sacrifice their sons, lovers, husbands, uncles,
and fathers with a high, firm spirit, announcing to the press that they
are only sorry their supply of relatives is limited. The sacrificing
brings them in contact with the world in which their males live. That's
the theory of it."

Anna's smile continued to deny itself to his words. It said to him,
"What does it matter what you say? I love you." And yet there was a
thought behind it holding itself aloof.

"But the fact of woman is always denying her theory," he added. "That's
what makes her confusing. The fact of her weeps at departures, shell
shocks, amputations; grows timid and organizes pacifist societies. It's
a case of sex instinct versus the personal complex."

The elderly young man straightened in his chair, removing his eyes from
Miss Williams with the air of one returning to masculine worldliness.

"I don't know about that," he said. "It's all very well to talk about
such things flippantly. But when the time comes, we must admit ..."

"That talk is foolish," interrupted Warren. He looked at Rachel and
laughed. "As a matter of fact, if anybody else but Dorn said it, I'd
believe it. But I never believe Dorn. Do you, Miss Laskin?"

Rachel answered, "Yes."

Dorn, piqued by the continual silence of his wife, felt a sudden
discomfiture at the sound of Rachel's voice. Was Anna aware he was
talking to her so as to avoid talking to Rachel? Perhaps. But Rachel's
presence was diluted by the company. He caught a glimpse of her dark
eyes opened towards him, and for a moment felt his words disintegrate.
He continued hurriedly:

"War, in a way, is a noble business, in that it reduces us to a
biological sanity--much the same as does Miss Dillingham's lavender
stocking!"

The company swallowed this with an abrupt stiffening of necks. Isaac
Dorn, who had been airing himself on the veranda, relieved a tension by
appearing in the doorway and moving quietly toward an unoccupied chair.
Anna reached her hand to the old man's and held it kindly. Miss
Dillingham, surveying the stretch of hose which had been honored in her
host's conversation, raised her eyes and replied quietly:

"Mr. Dorn is too clever to be really insulting."

The red-faced one clung to a sense of outrage. His cheeks had grown
slightly distended, and with the grimace of indignant virtue bristling
on his face, he turned