He was still in his rough sport clothes, and his bright brown hair was ruffled. He had an air about him of fine, arrogant carelessness that she could worship. He had none of Eddie’s punctilio, no sort of nice manners; he had only an indifferent ease, a most complete disregard for any other living soul. He interrupted without compunction, he made no pretense of listening; he wanted to do all the talking, and he wanted to be listened to with respect. Well, why not? Angelica wished nothing better than to look at him and listen to him forever; she couldn’t bear the idea of having to leave his presence. Every time she looked at him, he was looking at her--at those curious eyes not quite alike. She was bewitched; she scarcely knew what she was doing. She felt that she shouldn’t look at him so much, but that was quite beyond her control. The other people seemed dim and far away, hardly audible. He was filling up the world. He talked of the war, and his words were glorious. Oh, he was a poet, truly! His talk of blood and battles fired her imagination. Eddie’s studious dissertations upon the rights and wrongs of the conflict seemed to her contemptible. A man mustn’t go to war because it is his duty, but because he loves it; because he is a hero, like Vincent. "I’m going!" he said. "I long for it. It’s the completion of a man’s life. Until he has fought and killed, a man has not lived. That is his manhood, his glory. Think of all Europe rushing, blood-mad, to the Flanders battlefields, all the young and the fine and the strong herded there, to kill or to die! My God! The very pinnacle of life!" "Or the lowest depth," said Eddie. Vincent laughed. "You’re no warrior, my dear boy," he said. "Well, we don’t expect it of you." Eddie grew red. "I dare say I’m as much of a warrior as the next man," he said. "I dare say I’d like it--this fighting and killing; but I don’t see anything fine about it. I don’t glorify it. I think it’s beastly. There are plenty of things that I’d enjoy that I don’t by any means admire. This fighting is a filthy relic of our old barbarous days." "Then so are all our splendid passions, my boy. God keep us barbarous, and men! You chilly, cowering little pen-drivers----” "That’s enough!" said Eddie. "You’re talking rot--pure rot!" He was making a desperate effort to control a furious anger; for the sake of his own dignity he didn’t dare to quarrel with Vincent. He knew his brother and his unholy resources too well. "All those chaps in offices and so on," he continued. "You don’t know anything about them. If it comes to the test----” "Oh, you’ll all do your duty, all you little money-grubbers!" said Vincent. "I don’t doubt that; but what we need--what the world is sick for, _dying_ for--is men who are inspired." "They might be inspired by something better than drunken enthusiasm," said Eddie.