Oh, the world was well lost for Vincent, her poet lover! She read his letter again and cried over it--she who had shed so few tears in her life. II But in spite of all her hardihood, her pride in her love, she couldn’t help feeling a great dread of Eddie. She didn’t like to face him. She had a silly idea that by merely looking at her he might know all that her heart contained; and although he so much admired magnificence, she had no delusion as to his admiring this! She got ready on Saturday afternoon in a state of great nervousness that subdued even her eagerness to be with Vincent again. She hadn’t seen either of the brothers for the past five days; Eddie had telephoned every day, but there had been no word at all from Vincent. That didn’t trouble her, however. She felt that she and Vincent understood each other absolutely, no matter how long or how far apart they were. Just as she thought of him, he thought of her, longed for her. Her only trouble was this dread; if only it were not Eddie who were taking her to him! It seemed to cast a shadow upon the boldness and beauty of their love to dupe a creature so blameless and so generous as Eddie. He was late. It had grown dark, and the lamp in the parlour was lighted, and she and her mother sat in there, talking--a word now and then, and long, long silences. They had nothing to say to each other. Angelica’s heart had flown forward to meet her lover, while her mother’s brain struggled wearily with the problems of the minute, of the next week, of some one’s ironing, some one else’s scrubbing, of whether she were going to earn enough to keep herself from getting ill again. They were effectually separated now. Came a brisk ring at the bell, and Mrs. Kennedy went to open the door. "Come in, sir!" Angelica heard her say. "Mrs. Kennedy?" replied Eddie’s voice. "I hope you’re better?" "Thank you, sir, I’m quite well again. Won’t you step in?" Angelica greeted him with an uncertain smile; she didn’t know what his attitude would be. But he was certainly not vexed, or cold, or suspicious; he was simply excited, not himself. "Well!" he said. "I’ve done it!" "Done what?" she asked. "I’ve enlisted." "You’re going to the war?" "Yes." "But I thought you didn’t approve of it. You said it was beastly, and everything." "Yes, I do think so; but----” He hesitated, frowning. He didn’t know how to explain; didn’t, as a matter of fact, honestly wish to explain. His motive in going was purely selfish; he hoped in battle to make more of a man of himself, to glorify himself. It was the same impulse which sent him to historical books and to tremendous days of work--his earnest, priggish, sublime desire to perfect himself. He believed--like how many others!--that he would come back from the war a new man. "I think I ought to go," he said, and was immediately ashamed of this self-righteous phrase.