ompany to
relieve him of the burden. But the elderly youth had subsided, and
fulfilling his functions as host--a business of diverting visitors from
the fact that there was no reason for their presence in his home--Dorn
was forced to continue:

"I can conceive of no better or saner way to die than crawling around
in the mud, shrieking like a savage, and assisting blindly in the
depopulation of an enemy. But unless a man is forced to fight, I can
conceive of nothing more horrible than war. Don't you think that, Anna?"

"You know what I think, Erik," she answered. "I hate it."

He was startled by a sudden similarity between Rachel and Anna. She too
was looking at him with the indignant aloofness of his wife--with a rapt
attention seemingly beyond the sound of his words. He caught the two
women turn and smile to each other with an understanding that left him a
stranger to both. He thought quickly, "Anna is the only one in the room
intelligent enough for Rachel to understand." He felt a momentary pride
in his wife, and wondered.

As the conversation, playing with the theme of war, spread itself in
spasmodic blurs about the room, bursting in little crescendoes of
conviction, pronouncements, suddenly serious and inviolable truths, Dorn
found himself listening excitedly. An unusual energy pumped notions into
his thought. But it was impossible to give vent to ideas before this
collection of comedians. He desired to look at Rachel, but kept his eyes
away. If they were alone, he could talk. He permitted himself the luxury
of an explosive silence.

He sat for a time thinking. "Curious! She knows I have things to say to
her. They are unimportant but I can say them to no one else. She knows
I avoid looking at her. There must be something--an attraction. She's a
fool. I don't know. I should have put an end to our walks long ago."

His vocabulary, marshaling itself under a surprising force, charged with
a rush through his thought. Sentences unrelated, bizarre combinations of
words--a kaleidoscopic procession of astounding ideas--art, life, war,
streets, people--he knew what they were all about. An illumination like
a verbal ecstacy spread itself through him. Under it he continued to
think as if with a separate set of words, "I don't know. She isn't
beautiful. A stupid, nervous little girl. But it hasn't anything to do
with her. It's something in me."

He stood up, his eyes unsmiling, and surveyed the animated faces as from
a d