s making. If, as his mother
believed, already Rosamund was able to live with the child, Dion's
solitary possession of the woman he loved was definitely over, probably
forever. Something within him which, perhaps, foolishly, rebelled
against this fact had driven him to seek a diversion; he had found it in
beginning to try to live for the child in the man's way. He intended to
put the old life behind him, and to march vigorously on to the new. He
called up Master Tim before him in the little white "sweater," with
the primrose-colored ruffled feathers of hair, the gritted white teeth,
small almost as the teeth of a mouse, the moist, ardent cheeks, and
the glowing eyes looking steadfastly to the Tribal God. He must be the
Tribal God to his little son, if the child were a son.

Rosamund did not seem surprised by Dion's abrupt statement, though he
had never spoken of an intention to join any Volunteer Corps. She knew
he was fond of shooting, and had been in camp sometimes when he was at a
public school.

"What's that?" she asked. "I've heard of it, but I thought it was a
corps for men who are painters, sculptors, writers and musicians."

"It was founded, nearly forty years ago, I believe, for fellows working
in the Arts, but all sorts of business men are let in now."

"Will it take up much time?"

"No; I shall have to drill a certain amount, and in summer I shall go
into camp for a bit, and of course, if a big war ever came, I could be
of some use."

"I'm glad you've joined."

"I thought you would be. I shall see a little less of you, I suppose,
but, after all, a husband can't be perpetually hanging about the house,
can he?"

Rosamund looked at him and smiled, then laughed gently.

"Dion, how absurd you are! In some ways you are only a boy still."

"Why, what to you mean?"

"A man who sticks to business as you do, hanging about the house!"

"You wouldn't like it if I did."

"No, because I should know it was doing you harm."

"And besides--do you realize how independent you are?"

"Am I?"

"For a woman I think you are extraordinarily independent."

She sat still for a minute, looking straight before her in an almost
curious stillness.

"I believe I know why perhaps I seem so," she said at length.

And then she quietly, and very naturally, turned the conversation into
another channel; she was a quieter Rosamund in those days of waiting
than the Rosamund unaffected by motherhood. That Rosamund had been
v