uppose it's because I happen to be fond of the
French and the British and a few ideas of theirs. So I'm going to drive
an ambulance for them."

George fancied Wandel's real motive wasn't so easily expressed. He
longed to know it, but you couldn't pump Wandel.

"You're an ass," was all he said.

"Naturally," Wandel agreed. "Only asses go to war."

"Do you think it will help for you to get a piece of shell through your
head?"

"Quite as much as for any other ass."

"Why don't you say what you mean?" George asked, irritably.

"Perhaps you ask that," Wandel drawled, "because you don't understand
what I mean to say."

"I won't take care of your apartment," George snapped. "I won't have any
hand in such a piece of foolishness."

With Goodhue, however, he went to the pier to see Wandel off; absorbed
with the little man the sorrowful and apprehensive atmosphere of the
odorous shed; listened to choked farewells; saw brimming eyes; shared
the pallid anticipations of those about to venture forth upon an
unnatural sea; touched at last the very fringe of war.

"Why is he doing it?" George asked as Goodhue and he drove across town
to the subway. "I've never counted Driggs a sentimentalist."

"I'm not sure," Goodhue answered, "this doesn't prove he isn't. He's
always had an acute appreciation of values. Don't you remember? We used
to call him 'Spike'."

* * * * *

George let himself drift with events, but Wandel's departure increased
his uneasiness. Suppose he should be forced by circumstances to abandon
everything; against his better judgment to go? Automatically his
thoughts turned to Squibs. He recalled his advice.

"Don't let your ideas smoulder in your head. Come home and talk them
over."

He sent a telegram and followed it the next day. The Baillys met him at
the station, affectionately, without any reproaches for his long
absence. The menace was in the air here, too, for Mrs. Bailly's first
question, sharply expressed, was:

"You're not going, if----"

"I don't want to go," he answered.

Bailly studied him, but he didn't say anything.

That afternoon there was a boat race on Lake Carnegie. The Alstons drove
the Baillys and George down some hospitable resident's lane to an
advantageous bank near the finish line. They spread rugs and made
themselves comfortable there, but the party was subdued. Squibs and Mr.
Alston didn't seem to care to talk. Betty asked Mrs. Bailly's ques