rom human love and human comfort. Although he was musical, and could be
critical about a composition according to its lights, Dion did not think
about the music of this song _qua_ music--could not have said how good
he considered it to be. He knew only that this was not poor or insincere
music. But music sung in this peculiar way was only a means by which
the under part of a human being, that which has its existence deep down
under layers and layers of the things which commonly appear and are
known of, rose to the surface and announced itself.

The Artists' Rifles--and this!

When the voice was silent, Dion went slowly upstairs. The door of
Rosamund's little room was shut. He paused outside it, and stood looking
at it, the movable barrier of dark shining wood which divided him from
the voice. When he was ascending the stairs he had meant to go in to
Rosamund. But now he hesitated, and presently he turned away. He felt
that a greater barrier than the door was between them. He might open the
door easily enough, but the other barrier would remain. The life of the
body seemed to him just then an antagonist to the life of the soul.

"I'm on the lower plane," said Dion to himself that evening. "If it's a
boy, I shall have to look after his body; she'll take care of the rest.
Perhaps mothers always do, but not as she could and will."

From this moment he devoted himself as much as possible to his body,
almost, indeed, with the ardor of one possessed by a sort of mania.
The Artists' Corps took up part of his time; Jenkins another part; he
practised rifle shooting as diligently almost as if he expected to have
to take his place almost immediately in the field; he began to learn
fencing. Rosamund saw very little of him, but she made no comment. He
explained to her what he was doing.

"You see, Rose," he said to her once, "if it's a boy it will be my job
eventually to train him up to be first-class in the distinctively
man's part of life. No woman can ever do that. I mustn't let myself get
slack."

"You never would, I'm sure."

"I hope not. Still, lots of business men do. And I'm sitting about
three-quarters of my time. One does get soft, and the softer a chap gets
the less inclined he is to make the effort required of him, if he wants
to get hard. If I ever am to be the father of a growing-up son--when
they get to about sixteen, you know, they get awfully critical about
games and athletics, sport, everything of that kind--