h deeper than feud hatreds as the bay of artillery is deeper than
rifle-fire, the voice which called for vengeance rang in his ears, and
his hands ached for the feel of the musket.

He would have preferred that today, his last in Paris, should have been
left untrammelled. He wanted to drift with the laughing crowds between
the chestnut trees and to return the gay salutation of eyes that gleamed
the more brightly because they had been washed with tears. He wanted to
lose himself in that general picture which portrayed the spirit of
France so simply and gloriously valiant that, as one laughed, one felt a
catch in the throat for the background of tragedy against which all the
brightness was painted.

But a requirement of civility had robbed him of that full liberty and
left him no choice but to follow the instructions which had been
contained in a letter from a New York member of the House of
Representatives.

"If you have the opportunity in Paris," his colleague had written, "my
wife and I wish very much that you would look up some close friends of
ours.

"They are a little group of New York women who, with some reconstruction
unit, have been doing worth-while work in stricken territories of France
and Belgium. Our particular friend is Mrs. L. N. Steele, and while I
can't direct you to her, at the enclosed address they can give you
greater particulars. I understand they are occasionally in Paris, and,
if so--" Boone had groaned impatiently, then had dutifully made
inquiries, with the result that at noon today he was to meet and lunch
with a party including his friend's friend.

Now he reluctantly made his way along the thronged streets to the
designated restaurant in the Rue de Rivoli.

Even of her grim necessity, Paris had made a decorative virtue. The
pasted-paper designs on the shop windows--put there to prevent
bomb-shattered panes from flying dangerously--seemed to have had no
other purpose than the expression of their designers' originality and
temperament. The piled sand-sacks that buttressed monuments and arches
had a certain deftness of arrangement that escaped the unsightly.

Boone crossed the Place de la Concorde--where once the guillotine had
stood--and turned under the arches, looking at the signs.

He entered a restaurant that was, today, crowded, looking vaguely about
him, and with a shepherding urbanity of deportment the head waiter came
forward to his assistance.

Boone paused, still searching