a nebulous stage to a state of
quasi-acceptance. There was not, there could not be, any pronounced
love-making between two people so situated as Dalroy and Irene
Beresford. But eyes can exchange messages which the lips dare not utter,
and these two began to realise that they were designed the one for the
other by a wise Providence. As that is precisely the right sentiment of
young folk in love, romance throve finely in Madame Beranger's little
_auberge_ in the Rue de Nivers at Verviers. A tender glance, a touch of
the hand, a lighting of a troubled face when the dear one appears--these
things are excellent substitutes for the spoken word.

Irene was "Irene" to Dalroy ever since that night in the wood at
Argenteau, and the girl herself accepted the development with the
deftness which is every woman's legacy from Mother Eve.

"If you make free with my Christian name I must retort by using yours,"
she said one day on coming down to breakfast. "So, 'Good-morning,
Arthur.' Where did you get that hat?"

The hat in question was a purchase, a wide-brimmed felt such as is
common in Flanders. Its Apache slouch, in conjunction with Jan Maertz's
oldest clothes and a week's stubble of beard, made Dalroy quite
villainous-looking. Except in the details of height and physique, it
would, indeed, be difficult for any stranger to associate this
loose-limbed Belgian labourer with the well-groomed cavalry officer who
entered the Friedrich Strasse Station in Berlin on the night of 3rd
August. That was as it should be, though the alteration was none the
less displeasing to its victim. Irene adopted a huge sun-bonnet, and
compromised as to boots by wearing _sabots en cuir_, or clogs.

Singularly enough, white-haired Monsieur Garnier nearly brought matters
to a climax as between these two.

On the Wednesday evening, when the last forts of Liege were crumbling,
Madame Joos was reported convalescent and asleep, so both girls came to
the little _salon_ for a supper of stewed veal.

Naturally the war was discussed first; but the priest was learning to
agree with his English friend about its main features. In sheer dismay
at the black outlook before his country, he suddenly turned the talk
into a more intimate channel.

"What plans have you youngsters made?" he asked. "Monsieur Joos and I
can only look back through the years. The places we know and love are
abodes of ghosts. The milestones are tombstones. We can surely count
more friends dea