hind the army. War was going to cause great scarcity of provisions,
and all would have to come down to very plain fare.

"You, too, Boss, who are too old to go to war--you, with all your
millions, will have to eat the same as I. . . . Admit that it is a
beautiful thing."

Desnoyers was not offended by the malicious satisfaction that his future
privations seemed to inspire in the carpenter. He was very thoughtful.
A man of his stamp, an enemy of existing conditions, who had no property
to defend, was going to war--to death, perhaps--because of a generous
and distant ideal, in order that future generations might never know
the actual horrors of war! To do this, he was not hesitating at the
sacrifice of his former cherished beliefs, all that he had held sacred
till now. . . . And he who belonged to the privileged class, who
possessed so many tempting things, requiring defense, had given himself
up to doubt and criticism! . . .

Hours after, he again saw the carpenter, near the Arc de Triomphe. He
was one of a group of workmen looking much as he did, and this group
was joining others and still others that represented every social
class--well-dressed citizens, stylish and anaemic young men, graduate
students with worn jackets, pale faces and thick glasses, and youthful
priests who were smiling rather shamefacedly as though they had been
caught at some ridiculous escapade. At the head of this human herd was
a sergeant, and as a rear guard, various soldiers with guns on their
shoulders. Forward march, Reservists! . . .

And a musical cry, a solemn harmony like a Greek chant, menacing and
monotonous, surged up from this mass with open mouths, swinging arms,
and legs that were opening and shutting like compasses.

Robert was singing the martial chorus with such great

energy that his eyes and Gallic moustachios were fairly trembling. In
spite of his corduroy suit and his bulging linen hand bag, he had
the same grand and heroic aspect as the figures by Rude in the Arc de
Triomphe. The "affinity" and the boy were trudging along the sidewalk so
as to accompany him to the station. For a moment he took his eyes from
them to speak with a companion in the line, shaven and serious-looking,
undoubtedly the priest whom he had met the day before. Now they were
talking confidentially, intimately, with that brotherliness which
contact with death inspires in mankind.

The millionaire followed the carpenter with a look of respect,
imme