in the newspapers about the European war and knew something
about aviation records, although she hated aviation.

Broussard, with rage and chagrin in his heart, remembered that Anita
had probably seen him standing in the passage-way of Lawrence's
quarters, with Mrs. Lawrence's shapely hand on his shoulder. He
remained calm and smiling, nevertheless, and exerted to the utmost his
power to please. But Anita remained calm and smiling, and maddeningly
aloof. Broussard, inwardly cursing himself, made up his mind to have
it out with the Colonel the next day about the Lawrence affair.

When dinner was over and the men had come in from the smoking-room,
Mrs. Fortescue asked Broussard if he would sing; Neroda was already
there to play his accompaniments and Anita, would play the violin
obligato.

Broussard was not loth to show his accomplishments and he had a very
good will to try the magic of his voice upon Anita, gracious, and
obstinate and smiling.

The guests, in a circle in the drawing-room, watched and listened to
the group at the piano--Neroda, short and swarthy, with a rancorous
voice; Anita, in her blonde beauty, looking like another St. Cecilia,
and Broussard, dark and handsome, like Faust, the tempter.

With deep intent Broussard selected the most passionate of all his
passionate songs. It asked the old, old question, "I love thee; dost
thou love me?" Neroda struck into the accompaniment and Broussard's
voice, a tenor, with the strength and feeling of a baritone, took up
the song, while the music of Anita's violin delicately threaded the
harmonies, ever following and responding to Broussard's voice. All of
Anita's coldness vanished at the first strain of the music; Broussard's
voice penetrated her heart and inspired her hand. When the song was
over and she laid her violin down on the piano she was once more the
palpitating, shy enthusiast, the half-child, half-woman who had
captivated Broussard at the first glance.

During the interludes between the songs it was plain they forgot all
except each other. They turned over songs and read the titles to each
other, Broussard sometimes singing, under his breath, the words. Then,
when he sang them in full voice he infused all the verve, the passion,
the feeling he knew so well how to command, and played upon Anita's
heart-strings with the hand of a master, as Anita played upon the
strings of her violin. The men and women, listening and charmed,
smiled at each