She would arise in the morning fully determined to postpone her studies until the German menace was blasted forever and follow scores of her sister students to France,—to work out her own salvation on bloody fields where men in the abstract needed her most. She went to bed to clutch the counterpane hysterically as the most lonesome and unwanted woman in God’s bloody world. Between these two moods she swayed back and forth, wondering at times if she were losing her capacity for straight, cold-brained reasoning. Gordon came up to the house that February night and found Madelaine in the upstairs library. Mrs. Theddon was down in the city directing some Red Cross affair. The servants were below in the rear, out of sight and—in so far as Madelaine went—out of mind. A coal fire glowed beautifully in the open grate. In silken gown which only accentuated the strength and comeliness of her figure, the young woman sank down before the coals with Gordon across from her. Neither spoke for a long time. Madelaine knew it was no ordinary call which had brought Gordon up to-night. The man’s manner was perturbing. “Madge,” he said at last, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.” “About what, Gordon?” “About the war—and myself.” “I wonder if we’re really going to have war, Gordon?” “We are! There’s not a doubt about it. They’re expecting it at the Works and preparing accordingly.” “Mother told me last night you’d been promoted again. I’m glad you’re doing so finely. I’m really proud of you!” “That’s just the trouble, Madge. Sooner or later I’ve got to reach a decision.” “What sort of decision?” “Whether I’m going to be a ‘desk cootie’ through this Big Show, or whether I’m going to do my stunt like a he-man.” “Explain a little more fully, Gordon. Do you mean——” “If we get into the Big Show, there’s going to be a draft. Everybody’s talking about it down at the office. There’s no other way, with so much factional feeling among these hyphenated Americans. If they have a draft, it’s only reasonable to suppose that certain of us who know our jobs extra well at home may be ordered to enlist and yet to remain on those jobs as being more valuable at home than stabbing Germans. It looks as if that sort of thing might come to me—old Dalliworth is making plans along that line already. And Madge—I—I——” “Don’t be afraid to talk it out, Gordon. You may tell me without fear of being misunderstood.” “You bet I can!” cried the fellow thickly. “God bless you, Madge! What I started to say was, I can’t make up my mind which I ought to do—stay home and direct the making of shells or go to France and have a part in firing them off!” “Which do you want to do, Gord?” “I think I want to go to France, Madge. I know my job and all that. But—well, there ought to be lots of older chaps unfitted for active service who could do the home job as well as myself.” “Then, Gordon,” said the woman, without an instant’s hesitation, “I’d go to France!”