ot envyin' ye, just the same, Mr. Brooks. Afore ye get her home
again ye'll find the Irish say right, 'A woman's more throuble to look
afther than a thorn in the foot or a goat fetched back from the fair!'"

Chapter VI

MONSIEUR SATAN

There had been nothing, perhaps, more radically changed by the rigors of
war than Atlantic transportation. The thrills of pleasure and romance that
attended the tourist in the days before the war had deepened to thrills of
another timbre, while romance had become more epic than idyllic. The happy
phrase of "going abroad" had given place to "going over" or "going
across"; such a trifling difference in words, but the accompaniment comes
in quite another key. It was no longer shouted in a care-free,
happy-go-lucky fashion; it may have had a ring of suppressed exultation;
but it was sure to be whispered with a quick intake of breath, and so
often it came through teeth that were clenched.

The piers had changed their gala attire. The departure from this country
for another was no longer a matter of mere rejoicing and congratulatory
leave-taking. The gangways no longer swarmed with friends shouting, "Bon
voyage!" There was no free voicing of anticipation, no effervescing of
good humor. The Spirit of Adventure was there, but he had changed his
costume and his make-up. So had the good ships. Their black paint and
white trimmings were gone; gone were the gay red funnels; and in their
stead were massed the grays and blues, the greens and blacks of
camouflage. The piers were deserted. A thin stream of travelers sifted in;
there were a few officials and deckhands; and far outside, beyond hail of
ship or sea or traveler, in a barbed-wire inclosure, guarded by military
police, stood a few scattered, silent figures. They were the remnants war
had left of the once-upon-a-time jocose band of waving, shouting friends.

All this Sheila O'Leary felt as she stood on the upper deck of a French
liner with Peter Brooks and watched their fellow-passengers board the
ship. She was tingling from head to foot with almost as many emotions as
there are ganglia in the nervous system. It was as if she had suddenly
claimed the world for a patient and had laid fingers to its pulse for the
first time. Eagerly, impatiently, she was waiting to count each successive
beat until she should be able to read into the throbbing rhythm of it all
a meaning for herself.

As Sheila thought in terms of her work, so Peter tho