between him and Marguerite that would never disappear, that
would go on expanding, repelling them in contrary directions . . . far
. . . very far, even to the point of not recognizing each other when
their glances met.

He continued to be conscious of this impalpable obstacle in their
following interviews. Marguerite was extremely affectionate in her
speech, and would look at him with moist and loving eyes. But her
caressing hands appeared more like those of a mother than a lover, and
her tenderness was accompanied with a certain disinterestedness and
extraordinary modesty. She seemed to prefer remaining obstinately in the
studio, declining to go into the other rooms.

"We are so comfortable here. . . . I would rather not. . . . It is not
worth while. I should feel remorse afterwards. . . . Why think of such
things in these anxious times!"

The world around her seemed saturated with love, but it was a new
love--a love for the man who is suffering, desire for abnegation, for
sacrifice. This love called forth visions of white caps, of tremulous
hands healing shell-riddled and bleeding flesh.

Every advance on Julio's part but aroused in Marguerite a vehement and
modest protest as though they were meeting for the first time.

"It is impossible," she protested. "I keep thinking of my brother, and
of so many that I know that may be dying at this very minute."

News of battles were beginning to arrive, and blood was beginning to
flow in great quantities.

"No, no, I cannot," she kept repeating.

And when Julio finally triumphed, he found that her thoughts were still
following independently the same line of mental stress.

One afternoon, Marguerite announced that henceforth she would see him
less frequently. She was attending classes now, and had only two free
days.

Desnoyers listened, dumbfounded. Classes? . . . What were her
studies? . . .

She seemed a little irritated at his mocking expression. . . . Yes, she
was studying; for the past week she had been attending classes. Now the
lessons were going to be more regular; the course of instruction had
been fully organized, and there were many more instructors.

"I wish to be a trained nurse. I am distressed over my uselessness.
. . . Of what good have I ever been till now?" . . .

She was silent for a few moments as though reviewing her past.

"At times I almost think," she mused, "that war, with all its horrors,
still has some good in it. It helps to make us