“Moi!” said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. “I paint puddles, star-bombs, horses' ribs—I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and wire and wire, and water—long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare—nightmare—all day and all night—I paint them in my head.” He suddenly ceased speaking and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. “And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,” he added suddenly and loudly, “millions of Belgians, English, French, even the Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!” A little shiver ran through Noel, and she looked appealingly at Lavendie. “Barra,” he said, as if the soldier were not there, “is a great painter, but the Front has turned his head a little. What he says is true, though. There is no hatred out there. It is here that we are prisoners of hatred, mademoiselle; avoid hatreds—they are poison!” His wife put out her hand and touched the child's shoulder. “Why should we not hate?” she said. “Who killed Chica's father, and blew her home to-rags? Who threw her out into this horrible England—pardon, mademoiselle, but it is horrible. Ah! les Boches! If my hatred could destroy them there would not be one left. Even my husband was not so mad about his painting when we lived at home. But here—!” Her eyes darted at his face again, and then sank as if rebuked. Noel saw the painter's lips move. The sick woman's whole figure writhed. “It is mania, your painting!” She looked at Noel with a smile. “Will you have some tea, mademoiselle? Monsieur Barra, some tea?” The soldier said thickly: “No, madame; in the trenches we have tea enough. It consoles us. But when we get away—give us wine, le bon vin; le bon petit vin!” “Get some wine, Pierre!” Noel saw from the painter's face that there was no wine, and perhaps no money to get any; but he went quickly out. She rose and said: “I must be going, madame.” Madame Lavendie leaned forward and clutched her wrist. “Wait a little, mademoiselle. We shall have some wine, and Pierre shall take you back presently. You cannot go home alone—you are too pretty. Is she not, Monsieur Barra?”