s though they did not recognize him. Perhaps
Captain Laurier did not see very clearly, but she had looked at him
frankly and then hastily averted her eyes so as to evade his greeting.
. . . The old man felt sad over such indifference, not on his own
account, but on his son's. Poor Julio! . . . The unbending parent, in
complete mental immorality, found himself lamenting this indifference as
something monstrous.

The war was the other topic of conversation during the afternoons passed
in the studio. Argensola was not now stuffing his pockets with printed
sheets as at the beginning of hostilities. A serene and resigned calm
had succeeded the excitement of those first moments when the people were
daily looking for miraculous interventions. All the periodicals were
saying about the same thing. He was content with the official report,
and he had learned to wait for that document without impatience,
foreseeing that with but few exceptions, it would say the same thing as
the day before.

The fever of the first months, with its illusions and optimisms, now
appeared to Argensola somewhat chimerical. Those not actually engaged in
the war were returning gradually to their habitual occupations. Life had
recovered its regular rhythm. "One must live!" said the people, and the
struggle for existence filled their thoughts with its immediate urgency.
Those whose relatives were in the army, were still thinking of them, but
their occupations were so blunting the edge of memory, that they were
becoming accustomed to their absence, regarding the unusual as the
normal condition. At first, the war made sleep out of the question, food
impossible to swallow, and embittered every pleasure with its funereal
pall. Now the shops were slowly opening, money was in circulation, and
people were able to laugh; they talked of the great calamity, but only
at certain hours, as something that was going to be long, very long and
would exact great resignation to its inevitable fatalism.

"Humanity accustoms itself easily to trouble," said Argensola, "provided
that the trouble lasts long enough. . . . In this lies our strength."

Don Marcelo was not in sympathy with the general resignation. The
war was going to be much shorter than they were all imagining. His
enthusiasm had settled on a speedy termination;--within the next three
months, the next Spring probably; if peace were not declared in the
Spring, it surely would be in the Summer.

A new talker took