He obeyed, and all at once her slender arms were about his neck, pulling his head down, her fragrant hair was against his face, and her lips were pressed to his in such a willing kiss as she had never given him before. It left him trembling from head to foot. His heart beat madly. He could not speak. But she could. “_Now_ will you forget me, Stacey?” she murmured, with a low mischievous laugh. Whatever she felt, it was certainly not what he was feeling. Well, that was right. He was glad of that—he supposed. In the hall, however, she did not laugh. “Oh, Stacey,” she said, “come every day until you go! Come twice a day, three times! Come all day long!” He kissed her fingers and stumbled dizzily out of the door. When he reached the sidewalk a woman, muffled in a heavy fur coat, came toward him. “Mrs. Latimer!” he cried out in surprise, when she was close to him. “I wanted to speak to you alone, Stacey,” she said. “So when I heard you leave the library I slipped on a coat and came out here.” Stacey was genuinely touched, but also apprehensive—as one always is toward the mother of one’s fiancée—for fear that she was going to reprove him for something in his behavior to her daughter. “Oh, but I’ve kept you a long time!” he stammered. “Aren’t you cold?” “Stacey,” said Mrs. Latimer, looking gravely into the young man’s face, “you’re going to the war.” “How did you know?” he exclaimed. “I’ve seen it coming for many days,” she replied, “and to-night I was sure. You came to tell Marian.” “Yes. How very, very good of you to want to speak to me and to wait for me here outside!” She shook her head. “Come! Let’s walk up and down for a few minutes,” she said, and took his arm. “Mrs. Latimer,” he begged, “you’re not going to tell me that I’m wrong? It’s been so hard for me to decide. You’re not going to tell me that I owe it to Marian to stay? It would be so sweet to stay!” “Oh, no! Oh, no! no! no!” she replied. Then, after a pause: “How did Marian take it?” “She was a dear!” he said loyally, but with a sinking feeling at his heart. “She has never been so kind to me before.” “Was she glad you were going to be a hero?” He started. This was uncanny. But he felt resentment, too. “Marian is so fine,” he said a little stiffly. “She sees things in flashes. She looks through the—the ugly facts to the glory beneath them. I’m not a hero—I know it only too well; but Marian sees only the collective recognition that I and a thousand others are giving of—of—the existence of something deeper than facts—of an idea.” He shook his head, unable to express his thought, and uneasily conscious that he was defending Marian—not very well, either.