she had fallen in love with me. It was because she was going to. The
lovely little sloop-of-war was merely clearing her decks for action.
She didn't know this; I didn't. I frequented the house a little more
than other men; that was all. And I frequented it not because of the
charm exercised upon me by an individual member of the Fulton family,
but of the charm which it exercised upon me as a whole. _There_ was
peace, _there_ was happiness, _there_ was love and understanding; there
was poignant food for a lonely bachelor to chew upon. Remembering this
how can I believe that this is the best of all possible worlds, and
that everything in it is for the best? If I had not been fascinated by
the Fultons as a family, I should never have become a frequenter of
their house. If I had not been a frequenter of their house, I should
never have split that family which as a whole so fascinated me with a
wedge of tragedy. It is a horrid circle of thought.

When I learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband my heart had given
no guilty bound of anticipation; instead it had turned lead-heavy for
sheer sorrowing and sunk into my boots. The other day the Germans
smashed the blue glass in Rheims Cathedral. A friend brought me a
little fragment of this, and among my personal possessions I give it
the place of first treasure. It's a more wonderful blue than Lucy's
eyes, even. The light of heaven has poured through it to illumine the
face of Joan of Arc. Its price is far above rubies and sapphires, and
it seems to me the most wonderful treasure to have for my very own.
But does this fact automatically make me glad that the Germans banged
the great cathedral to pieces? It does not. Sometimes when I look at
the light through my piece of blue glass I see red. And I hope that
those who trained guns against the holy shrine and who are not already
in hell, soon will be. And I could wish myself the hell of never
having known Lucy's love, if by so doing I could restore the Fulton
family to the blessed and tranquil state in which I first knew them.

I began this chapter with an idea of self-defense. How much of the
tragedy am I responsible for? Upon my soul I can never answer that
question to my satisfaction, and my conscience has put it to me
thousands of times. I ought to have seen it coming. I didn't--at
least I'm very sure that I didn't. But sometimes I am not so very sure
of this. It is so obvious (now) that I ought to h