She recoiled with a cry as a leaf, fluttering in through the window, brushed against her face, and then fell, brown and shrivelled, at her feet. She stooped and picked it up. ‘_Blasted!_’ The sound of her whisper was terrible. In the moonlight, her face appeared to be blanched to a greenish-white hue. Involuntarily, Quality saw, in a lightning flash of clairvoyance, the white, dripping face of a peasant boy, with wolfish eyes glowing yellow, as he felt the edge of his axe with tremulous fingers. ‘Ah, m’sieur, our last night together!’ Inspired by unusual affection, madame pressed his arm. ‘To-morrow, you will be gone. But what of me? _Hélas!_ what of me?’ ‘You?’ Quality strove to speak naturally. ‘Oh, very soon I hope the Allies will make good, and your town be again cleared of the enemy.’ ‘The enemy? Ah!’ Madame broke off abruptly. Following the direction of her gaze, Quality also looked at the fountain darkly carven against the luminous sky. Obedient to the dictate of his mountebank nerves, it slightly altered its position. Or was it a shape that slipped farther into the depths of its shadow? ‘The enemy!’ Madame raised her voice shrilly, with startling lack of caution. ‘Who is the enemy? Have you ever given a thought to the lot of us who live in a province that to-day is French and to-morrow German? Can one say with certainty: “This one is French; that one German”? No, no, m’sieur! My name may be French as the wife of a French spouse, but I have German blood in my veins—German sympathies—love of the Fatherland—deep hatred for all his foes!’ Again the fountain moved, to give sign that it had heard. In a last desperate effort to preserve his sanity, Quality slammed down the window, forcing a laugh the while. ‘Come, madame! That’s not a very friendly sentiment. You cannot mean what you say. You are overstrung—got nerves.’ ‘Nerves? _Bien!_ To-night, I see always M. Lemoine.’ She sank down heavily, her fingers groping for her knitting. The steel needles began to click with mechanical precision. Quality looked at the clock. It wanted but three minutes to twelve. The day was near its birth. At the same moment, madame broke the silence. ‘Courage, m’sieur!’ Her teeth flashed in a smile. ‘We were both wrong. There were no footsteps, after all!’ Her words, vibrant with cheerful sympathy, awoke in Quality a response that was almost electric. Suspicion and fear melted at the warm touch of humanity. The devils that had possessed and tormented him, went out of him, leaving him wrapped in a foretaste of that peace that passeth understanding. He saw the room dimly, as though through a veil of blue transparency, in a new guise. It was the abode of warmth and comfort—a domestic interior. Madame, smiling over her work, was a type of tranquil femininity. Suddenly, without warning, the all-pervading calm was shattered.