of hatred, mademoiselle; avoid hatreds--they are poison!"

His wife put out her hand and touched the child's shoulder.

"Why should we not hate?" she said. "Who killed Chica's father, and blew
her home to-rags? Who threw her out into this horrible England--pardon,
mademoiselle, but it is horrible. Ah! les Boches! If my hatred could
destroy them there would not be one left. Even my husband was not so mad
about his painting when we lived at home. But here--!" Her eyes darted
at his face again, and then sank as if rebuked. Noel saw the painter'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