w that the sofa demanded a cushion at
her back and that the arm-chair between the fire and window did not. But
she had never, until now, consciously observed the carpet and curtains,
the breast-high white book-cases and Chippendale writing-table, since
the first night when she came there and stood tossing a glass horse-shoe
idly into the air and stealing curious glances at the furniture.

She recognized it all now and remembered her earliest emotions,
remembered even telling him that the first burning cigarette would spoil
his grey carpet. But her vision was blurred; she fancied herself seeing
through the walls, penetrating a belt of darkness and piercing other
walls beyond which she sat at supper with an undemonstrative, quietly
determined young man. The jig and stamp of ragtime echoed
overhead--"Dixie! All abo-o-oard for Dixie! Dixie! Tak your tickuts
heere for Dixie!"; she heard her own voice--"I love that one-step. Why
did you drag me away in the middle?" and Jack Waring's in answer--"Well,
you ought to be grateful to me for getting you a table before the rush
starts." That was a few hours before war was declared, though the long
banqueting-hall of Loring Castle had resounded with rumours and
expositions of war throughout dinner. Almost at once Jack asked her to
marry him; she once more heard his tranquil explanation--"I've just been
received into your church."

A blaze of light. . . . A thunder of voices. . . . Out of the distance
she heard him saying, "In fact, you've been lying to me all along? You
never intended to marry me?"

A blaze of light; and silence that made her head sing. Jack's face
seemed to grow thinner and the gleam in his eyes more brightly cold. The
supper-room was emptying, but neither could decide to stand up and say
good-bye. Lord Summertown and a brother-officer waltzed in and became
noisily cheerful in one corner. Later they heard a car driving past the
open windows; George Oakleigh appeared in the doorway; Summertown's
companion finished the champagne and rose to his feet protesting
fretfully: "To declare war in the middle of supper is not the act of a
gentleman. . . ." Then at last she had seen that she had tempted Jack to
imperil his soul. . . .

War had seemed a small thing then, though Jack Summertown was to be
killed within six weeks and her cousin Jim within a year. It was a
thing remote and only important as postponing her punishment from Jack.

"I must get back to London," he sa