More or less--upon the nice balance of those two words hung the fine distinction of whether her present agitation was normal or abnormal. A little more in one scale, a little less in the other, makes all the difference in the world. The trouble was that with her it was one moment a little more and the next a little less. The scales refused to remain stationary. And her friend Galsworthy did not help her in the slightest. Rightfully he should have bade her shrug her shoulders and go on with him. He should have said, in effect: “Be sensible. This man is not anything in particular to you, and even if he is your guest there is nothing you can do to relieve his plight. He is only a figure in real life and you know you are not greatly concerned about such. They are merely shadows. Come with me and I will show you the substance--men who are men. I will reveal to you the raw, crude inwardness of men. You will be wiser--and safer.” But he failed her. To be sure, she refused to listen, but the fault still remained his. The function of the artist is to command attention. At quarter past eleven she put down her book and moved restlessly about the room. Covertly her father watched her. There was an expression on her face he had never seen since she was a little girl--frank, unrestrained fear. “There’s a full moon and the chances are he is enjoying it,” the father suggested. She brushed aside the curtains and looked out. The grass was a stagy green; the trees like the trees of Maeterlinck. The driveway leading to the road was as clear as by daylight. “The moon is full,” she nodded. “That makes it easy to see.” But if it made it easy for Allston to see, it made it easy for Childers. One had the choice of getting comfort or added fear from that. “Of course he may have strayed from the road,” said Howe. “It is possible, but not probable,” decided Wilmer. “Why do you say that?” “He has told me about his night patrols in France.” “He had his maps and his instructions to help him there.” “Yes,” she admitted. “That’s true.” “Then--” But at that moment Wilmer caught sight of a figure in the roadway. Only the slightest quickening of the movement of her nostrils revealed the jump her heart gave. She drew back a little so as not to be seen. Then she waited perhaps two breaths before saying: “Here he comes now.” She recrossed the room to the table, resumed her seat, and picked up her book. It was here Allston saw her when he came in. Howe had hurried to the door. “Welcome back,” the latter greeted the younger man heartily. “You gave us all a scare.” “I’m sorry. The night was so wonderful I took my time.” Wilmer looked up from her book with a smile. His presence was enough to throw her back into her usual calm. Her fears of a moment ago honestly now appeared ludicrous. “You didn’t meet with any adventures, then?” “But I did,” Allston smiled back. “I was the hero of a real bit of melodrama.” He sat down crossing his long legs comfortably.