the other man, and saw what he took for a
far-away look on the scarred face. To change the subject to one more
congenial, the aviator began to chat of things at the front; but almost
instantly the English-speaking nurse intervened. The two invalids had
talked long enough. Both must rest. They could see each other again
next day.

Without any protest, and scarcely saying good-by, Denin dragged himself
back to his own part of the ward. "'Nobody home!' The poor fellow looks
as if he wasn't all there yet." Severne excused the seeming rudeness of
the nameless one.

Denin had not had his full hour of freedom from bed, but he declared
that he was tired and that his head ached, so he was allowed to lie
down. He turned his face to the wall, and appeared to sleep, but never
had he been more vividly awake.

His plan had fallen into ruin with one bewildering crash. The
corner-stone had been torn out from the foundation. His duty--or what
he had seen as his duty--was changed. After all, Barbara had not been
disappointed in her cousin. She had found him her "knight and her hero"
as of old. She had loved the man so passionately that she had given
herself to him after only eight months of widowhood. If he had heard
this thing of a woman other than Barbara, Denin would have been
revolted. It could only have looked like an almost defiant admission
that there was no love in the first marriage--nothing but interest. He
could not, would not, however, think that Barbara's act was a proof of
hardness. Lying on his bed, with his face to the blank white wall, he
began to make desperate excuses for the girl.

She had married him by special license at three days' notice eight
months ago, hurried into a decision by his love, and perhaps the
glamour of war's red light. Her mother, too, had given her no peace
until she made up her mind. For the hundredth time he assured himself
of that fact. And as for the well-nigh indecent haste of the second
wedding; why, after all, was it so much worse than the first?

Her marriage with him, John Denin, had been a marriage only in name.
She was left a girl, with no memories of wifehood. No doubt this new
giving of herself had been another "war wedding." Trevor d'Arcy in his
picture looked like a man who would do his best to seize whatever he
wanted. He had of course been going away, perhaps after being wounded
and nursed by Barbara. It would be natural, very natural, for her to
feel that she would be happi