queer jerking movement from his hips.

She wondered what they were and decided that they were part of the
Commission for Relief in Belgium, bound for Ostend.

All those people had the look that John had, of having found what they
had wanted, of being satisfied, appeased. Even Sutton had it, lying on
the top of his sadness, like a light. They felt precisely as she was
feeling--all those people.

And through her wonder she remained aware of John Conway as he walked the
deck, passing and passing in front of her.

She got up and walked with him.

The two women stared at them as they passed. One, the tall one, whispered
something to the other.

"John--do my knees show awfully as I walk?"

"No. Of course they don't. Gwinnie's do. She doesn't know what to do
with them."

He looked down at her and smiled.

"I like you. I like you in that cap. You look as if you were sailing fast
against a head wind, as if you could cut through anything."

Their turn brought them again under the women's eyes. He took her arm and
drew her aside to the rail of the boat's stern. They stood there,
watching the wake boiling and breaking and thinning, a white lace of
froth on the glassy green. Sutton passed them.

"What's the matter with him?" she said.

"The War. He's got it on his mind. It's no use taking it like that,
Jeanne, as one consummate tragedy ... How are _you_ feeling about it?"

"I don't think I'm feeling anything--except wanting to get there. And
wanting--wanting frightfully--to help."

"Unless you can go into it as if it was some tremendous, happy
adventure--That's the only way to take it. I shouldn't be any good if I
didn't feel it was the most _romantic_ thing that ever happened to
me.... To have let everything go, to know that nothing matters, that it
doesn't matter if you're killed, or mutilated ... Of course I want to
help, but that would be nothing without the gamble. The danger."

He stopped suddenly in his turning and held her with his shining,
excited eyes.

"War's the most romantic thing that ever happened ... False romance, my
father calls it. Jolly little romance about _him_. He'll simply make pots
of money out of the war, selling motors to the Government."

"It's rather--romantic of him to give us those two ambulances, and
pay for us."

"_Is_ it? Think of the kudos he gets out of it, and the advertisement for
Roden and Conway, the stinking paragraphs he'll put in the papers about
himself: 'His second