"As for the army, I don't happen to be interested in the war. I disapprove of the crudeness of our Canadian civilization. I disapprove of England's lack of the artistic. I disapprove of German militarism, Scotch bagpipes, Swiss cheese, Chinese laundries, and American politics. Why should I fight for one when I disapprove of them all? As for my fellow-man, I shun the ordinary man of the streets because he does not think, read, or bathe often enough. I am not hostile to him; I merely ignore him. I am not a coward at all, my dear Vera; I am merely an artist among artisans." He bowed gracefully. "Let us return to the dancing," he said. With a frightened, inquiring glance, she took his arm, and without a word they left the conservatory. At the door of the ballroom they paused, and she laid a timid hand on his arm. It will ever be a mystery to men how women can love and despise the same object. "Dennis," she said, "will you try to forget what I have said?" Her courage had gone, fled before his coolness and the fascination he held for her, though she had striven with all her womanhood to free herself from it. "I wish to Heaven I could," he said grimly. V The morning sunshine invaded the rooms of Dennis Montague with pervading cheeriness. It was nearing the end of April, and a hundred birds sang of the winter wonders of arid Africa, and of the witcheries of the Nile, where Pygmies are at war with the butterflies, and the great god Memnon raises his mighty shout to greet the dawn of day. Oblivious to the sunshine and everything but his thoughts, Montague lay in bed, and sought to wrestle with the truth he had heard the night before. It was impossible to dismiss the thing from his mind. His brain throbbed with resentment, questioning, searching her words--striving to convince himself that her charge of cowardice was the vituperation of an unrequited love. But it was useless. He could explain her actions, dissect her motives, applaud his own pose, but he could not eliminate the feeling of personal nausea which clung to him, as though he had suddenly sickened of his whole nature. A knock at the door interrupted the thread of his thoughts, and his valet entered with a tray of breakfast-things. "Good morning, sir." Sylvester carefully rearranged the tray on a little table beside the bed. "It's a beautiful morning, sir. There's great news too." "What is it?" "Canadians 'ave saved Calais, sir--leastways they've stopped them for the time." "They're in action, eh?" "'Orrible, too, sir; the paper says the Germans used poison gas." "Good God!" "Yes, sir--the French Colonials gave way, yelling that 'ell was let loose, and the Canadians went up and 'eld the line." Montague put down the cup of coffee untasted. "What does it say--about casualties?" "Why, sir it looks as if some battalions was pretty well wiped out. 'Ere's the paper, sir----" "No--no. I don't want to see it. Tell me--it says ... the Canadians held against ... gas?" "Yes, sir."