“It’s too bad,” she persisted, “that marriage isn’t an insurance of happiness. Now George and Constance are ideally suited to each other; but they never knew it until it was too late. I wish he’d go to Africa or some far-off place. If he doesn’t there’s going to be an earthquake one of these days.” “Well, earthquakes in this part of the world are never serious,” Bruce remarked, uncomfortable as he found that Constance’s friend was really serious and appealing for his sympathy. “You probably don’t know Franklin Mills--no one does, for that matter--but with his strict views of things there’d certainly be a big smash if _he_ knew!” “Well, of course there’s nothing for him to know,” said Bruce indifferently. The maid came in to announce dinner and Constance and Whitford reappeared. “George has been reciting lovely poetry to me,” said Constance. “Nellie, has Bruce kept you amused? I know he _could_ make love beautifully if he only _would_!” “He’s afraid of me--or he doesn’t like me,” said Mrs. Burton--“I don’t know which!” “He looks guilty! He looks terribly guilty. I’m sure he’s been making love to you!” said Constance dreamily as though under the spell of happy memories. “We’ll go in to dinner just as we are. These informal parties are always the nicest.” III Whitford was one of those rare men who are equally attractive to both men and women. Any prejudice that might have been aroused in masculine minds by his dilettantism was offset by his adventures as a traveler, hunter and soldier. “Now, heroes,” began Mrs. Burton, when they were seated, “tell us some war stories. I was brought up on my grandfather’s stories of the Civil War, but the boys we know who went overseas to fight never talk war at all!” “No wonder!” exclaimed Whitford. “It was only a little playful diversion among the nations. That your idea, Storrs?” “Nothing to it,” Bruce assented. “We had to go to find out that the French we learned in school was no good!” Whitford chuckled and told a story of an encounter with a French officer of high rank he had met one wet night in a lonely road. The interview began with the greatest courtesy, became violent as neither could make himself intelligible to the other, and then, when each was satisfied of the other’s honorable intentions, they parted with a great flourish of compliments. Bruce capped this with an adventure of his own, in which his personal peril was concealed by his emphasis on the ridiculous plight into which he got himself by an unauthorized excursion through a barbed wire entanglement for a private view of the enemy. “That’s the way they all talk!” said Connie admiringly. “You’d think the whole thing had been a huge joke!” “You’ve got to laugh at war,” observed Whitford, “it’s the only way. It’s so silly to think anything can be proved by killing a lot of people and making a lot more miserable.” “You laugh about it, but you might both have been killed!” Mrs. Burton expostulated.