be?"

After a silence he quoted: "_Could you and I with Him conspire_----"

She nodded: "'_To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire_----' But
there is no '_Him_.' It's you and I.... Both divine.... Suppose we
grasp it and '_shatter it to bits_.' Shall we?"

"'_And then remould it nearer to the heart's desire?_'"

"Remould it nearer to the logic of common sense."

Neither spoke for a few moments. Then she drew a swift, smiling
breath.

"We're getting on rather rapidly, aren't we?" she said. "Did you
expect to lunch with such a friendly, human girl? And will you now
take her to inspect this modest house which you hope may suit her, and
which, she most devoutly hopes may suit her, too?"

"This has been a perfectly delightful day," he said as they rose.

"Do you want me to corroborate you?"

"Could you?"

"I've had a wonderful time," she said lightly.

CHAPTER VI

John Estridge, out of a job--as were a million odd others now arriving
from France by every transport--met James Shotwell, Junior, one wintry
day as the latter was leaving the real estate offices of Sharrow &
Co.

"The devil," exclaimed Estridge; "I supposed you, at least, were safe
in the service, Jim! Isn't your regiment in Germany?"

"It is," replied Shotwell wrathfully, shaking hands. "Where do you
come from, Jack?"

"From hell--via Copenhagen. In milder but misleading metaphor, I come
from Holy Russia."

"Did the Red Cross fire you?"

"No, but they told me to run along home like a good boy and get my
degree. I'm not an M.D., you know. And there's a shortage. So I had to
come."

"Same here; I had to come." And Shotwell, for Estridge's enlightenment,
held a post-mortem over the premature decease of his promising military
career.

"Too bad," commented the latter. "It sure was exciting while it
lasted--our mixing it in the great game. There's pandemonium to pay in
Russia, now;--I rather hated to leave.... But it was either leave or
be shot up. The Bolsheviki are impossible.... Are you walking up
town?"

They fell into step together.

"You'll go back to the P. & S., I suppose," ventured Shotwell.

"Yes. And you?"

"Oh, I'm already nailed down to the old oaken desk. Sharrow's my boss,
if you remember?"

"It must seem dull," said Estridge sympathetically.

"Rotten dull."

"You don't mean business too, do you?"

"Yes, that's also on the bum.... I did contrive to sell a small house
the other day--and blew myself to thi