He waited her pleasure with such patience as he could master. He had come to think of Helen during most of his waking hours. At least if his military duties and studies were to the fore, the thought of Helen was ever present in the back of his mind. She was going to France he knew; but he might never see her over there. Just now he was feeling very keenly the fact that he was assigned to the Front and that he might, within a very short period, be in desperate danger of death. A precious hour and more he waited. Occasionally he saw a soft-footed serving man or a maid pass his lonely alcove. Nobody spoke to him. Finally the noise of a car under the porte-cochère awoke hollow echoes. Immediately the sound of voices came from above. Down the broad staircase tripped Helen. “Oh, mercy _me_, Mr. Barton! Are _you_ here? And waiting _all_ this time? That stupid maid! I was so busy with my dressmaker that I could not possibly come. And then--the maid never reminded me.” She might have delivered him a physical blow in the face and he would have felt or shown it no more keenly. She was gorgeous in frock and hat, and she smiled upon him in her old alluring way. But his spirit fell from its heights. A dressmaker had been of more importance! She had depended upon her maid to remind her that he was waiting to see her! “I hoped to see you for a few minutes, Miss Helen,” he said quietly. “I am going away.” “Of course! So am I!” she cried. “But I must be off now to the Northup’s dinner. The car is waiting. It’s too late for me to refuse, Mr. Barton. And there is a dance afterward that I positively _must_ look in at. Dear _me_! I’ll really be _glad_ to be over there and at work in a hospital. This running around to dinners and dances and what Morry Copley calls ‘tea-fights’, is just killing me. “Can’t I see you in the morning, Frank?” He wanted to tell her that in the morning he would already be at sea. But that was forbidden. “I am afraid not. I have to go back on the eight-ten.” “Oh! Not so _soon_! Really?” There was much lacking in her tone--much of warmth that he had expected. “Well, best of luck! Hope to see you ‘over there,’ you know. Bye-bye!” She ran out to the car, turning to wave her hand as she got in. And that after he had waited an hour! Had Macon Hammerly been right after all? He had said: “The Fullers only want you for what they can get out of you. Grandon Fuller was never known yet to do anything without a purpose behind it. Look how he hung about Israel Diller--was right on the spot when the old chap died. You don’t suppose Diller made Grandon Fuller rich because he _deserved_ riches, do you?”