ainter's lips move. The sick woman's whole figure writhed.

"It is mania, your painting!" She looked at Noel with a smile. "Will you
have some tea, mademoiselle? Monsieur Barra, some tea?"

The soldier said thickly: "No, madame; in the trenches we have tea
enough. It consoles us. But when we get away--give us wine, le bon vin;
le bon petit vin!"

"Get some wine, Pierre!"

Noel saw from the painter's face that there was no wine, and perhaps no
money to get any; but he went quickly out. She rose and said:

"I must be going, madame."

Madame Lavendie leaned forward and clutched her wrist. "Wait a little,
mademoiselle. We shall have some wine, and Pierre shall take you back
presently. You cannot go home alone--you are too pretty. Is she not,
Monsieur Barra?"

The soldier looked up: "What would you say," he said, "to bottles of wine
bursting in the air, bursting red and bursting white, all day long, all
night long? Great steel bottles, large as Chica: bits of bottles,
carrying off men's heads? Bsum, garra-a-a, and a house comes down, and
little bits of people ever so small, ever so small, tiny bits in the air
and all over the ground. Great souls out there, madame. But I will tell
you a secret," and again he gave his heavy giggle, "all a little, little
mad; nothing to speak of--just a little bit mad; like a watch, you know,
that you can wind for ever. That is the discovery of this war,
mademoiselle," he said, addressing Noel for the first time, "you cannot
gain a great soul till you are a little mad." And lowering his piggy
grey eyes at once, he resumed his former attitude. "It is that madness I
shall paint some day," he announced to the carpet; "lurking in one tiny
corner of each soul of all those millions, as it creeps, as it peeps,
ever so sudden, ever so little when we all think it has been put to bed,
here--there, now--then, when you least think; in and out like a mouse
with bright eyes. Millions of men with white souls, all a little mad. A
great subject, I think," he added heavily. Involuntarily Noel put her
hand to her heart, which was beating fast. She felt quite sick.

"How long have you been at the Front, monsieur?"

"Two years, mademoiselle. Time to go home and paint, is it not? But
art--!" he shrugged his heavy round shoulders, his whole bear-like body.
"A little mad," he muttered once more. "I will tell you a story. Once
in winter after I had rested a fortnight, I go back to the t