well," said Noel, and sat down again.

The painter stood leaning against the wall, and his wife looked up at
his tall, thin figure, with eyes which had in them anger, and a sort of
cunning.

"A great painter, my husband, is he not?" she said to Noel. "You would
not imagine what that man can do. And how he paints--all day long; and
all night in his head. And so you would not let him paint you, after
all?"

Lavendie said impatiently: "Voyons, Henriette, causez d'autre chose."

His wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him the
look of a dog that has been rebuked.

"I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave the house. Here I
live day after day--my husband is always painting. Who would go out
alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds of the war in every
face? I prefer to keep my room. My husband goes painting; every face
he sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. But I am a
prisoner. Monsieur Barra is our first visitor for a long time."

The soldier raised his face from his fists. "Prisonnier, madame! What
would you say if you were out there?" And he gave his thick giggle.
"We are the prisoners, we others. What would you say to imprisonment
by explosion day and night; never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! les
tranchees! It's not so free as all that, there."

"Every one has his own prison," said Lavendie bitterly. "Mademoiselle
even, has her prison--and little Chica, and her doll. Every one has his
prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle."

"Moi!" said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. "I paint puddles,
star-bombs, horses' ribs--I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and
wire and wire, and water--long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and
men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare--nightmare--all
day and all night--I paint them in my head." He suddenly ceased speaking
and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks
resting on his fists. "And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,"
he added suddenly and loudly, "millions of Belgians, English, French,
even the Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!"

A little shiver ran through Noel, and she looked appealingly at
Lavendie.

"Barra," he said, as if the soldier were not there, "is a great painter,
but the Front has turned his head a little. What he says is true,
though. There is no hatred out there. It is here that we are prisoners