et just now, and his is the only temperament which has never yet
been rammed down the world's throat in the form of religion. Go out and
proclaim your views from the housetops, monsieur, and see what happens."

The painter shook his head with a smile which seemed to Fort very bright
on the surface, and very sad underneath.

"Non, monsieur," he said; "the artist does not wish to impose his
temperament. Difference of temperament is the very essence of his joy,
and his belief in life. Without difference there would be no life for
him. 'Tout casse, tout lasse,' but change goes on for ever: We artists
reverence change, monsieur; we reverence the newness of each morning,
of each night, of each person, of each expression of energy. Nothing is
final for us; we are eager for all and always for more. We are in love,
you see, even with-death."

There was a silence; then Fort heard Pierson murmur:

"That is beautiful, monsieur; but oh! how wrong!" "And what do you
think, Nollie?" said the man in khaki suddenly. The girl had been
sitting very still in her low chair, with her hands crossed in her lap,
her eyes on the fire, and the lamplight shining down on her fair hair;
she looked up, startled, and her eyes met Fort's.

"I don't know; I wasn't listening." Something moved in him, a kind of
burning pity, a rage of protection. He said quickly:

"These are times of action. Philosophy seems to mean nothing nowadays.
The one thing is to hate tyranny and cruelty, and protect everything
that's weak and lonely. It's all that's left to make life worth living,
when all the packs of all the world are out for blood."

Noel was listening now, and he went on fervently: "Why! Even we
who started out to fight this Prussian pack, have caught the pack
feeling--so that it's hunting all over the country, on every sort of
scent. It's a most infectious thing."

"I cannot see that we are being infected, Captain Fort."

"I'm afraid we are, Mr. Pierson. The great majority of people are always
inclined to run with the hounds; the pressure's great just now; the pack
spirit's in the air."

Pierson shook his head. "No, I cannot see it," he repeated; "it seems to
me that we are all more brotherly, and more tolerant."

"Ah! monsieur le cure," Fort heard the painter say very gently, "it is
difficult for a good man to see the evil round him. There are those whom
the world's march leaves apart, and reality cannot touch. They walk
with God, and the bestial