, to be exact, she did become less accessible in a purely
physical sense. But it went deeper than that. During the eighteen months
following Thompson's motor-sales debut he never succeeded in
establishing between them the same sense of spiritual communion that he
had briefly glimpsed those few minutes in Carr's home on the way he
opened his salesroom.

There was Tommy, for instance. Tommy was far closer to Sophie Carr than
he, Thompson, could manage to come, no matter how he tried. He and Tommy
were friends. They had apartments in the same house. They saw each other
constantly. The matter of competition in business was purely nominal.
They were both too successful in business to be envious of each other in
that respect. But where Sophie Carr was concerned it was a conflict, no
less existent because neither man ever betrayed his consciousness of
such a conflict. Indeed Thompson sometimes wondered uneasily if Ashe's
serenity came from an understanding with her. But he doubted that. Tommy
had not won--yet. That intangible yet impenetrable wall which was rising
about Sophie was built of other, sterner stuff.

She seldom touched on the war, never more than a casual sentence or two.
Perhaps a phrase would flash like a sword, and then her lips would
close. Carr would discuss the war from any angle whatsoever, at any
time. It became an engrossing topic with him, as if there were phases
that puzzled him, upon which he desired light. He ceased to be
positive. But his daughter shunned war talk.

Yet the war levied high toll on her waking hours, and for that reason
Thompson seldom saw her save in company. His vision of little dinners,
of drives together, of impromptu luncheons, of a steady siege in which
the sheer warmth of that passion in him should force capitulation to his
love--all those pleasant dreams went a-glimmering. Sophie was always on
some committee, directing some activity growing out of the war, Red
Cross work, Patriotic Fund, all those manifold avenues through which the
women fought their share of Canada's fight. For a pleasure-loving
creature Sophie Carr seemed to have undergone an astonishing
metamorphosis. She spent on these things, quietly, without parade or
press-agenting, all the energy in her, and she had no reserve left for
play. War work seemed to mean something to Sophie besides write-ups in
the society column and pictures of her in sundry poses. These things
besides, surrounded her with all sorts of fuss