She seized on that as some sort of creed amid the welter of all she had ever thought she believed. She would not let things hurt her, She plunged more eagerly than ever into the amusements of her world. After her marriage she started and ran a smart officers’ hospital in London. Mrs. Riversley’s name was on many committees. She was a noted giver of the then fashionable boy and girl dances. A celebrated personage said she reminded him of a human fire. There seemed a fever in her body, a restlessness which never left her. Since the cessation of hostilities this restlessness had increased, or possibly now that others were ceasing their activities it was more noticeable. While North sat smoking his cigar she fetched a racquet and began to practice her service on the court nearest him. She served over-hand a swift hard service, and North watched the long slim line of her figure, her exquisite poise, as she swung her racquet above her head and drove the ball home. It was typical somehow of the driving force that seemed behind her restlessness. Presently she stopped, and came and sat down close beside him, and when he looked at her he saw that her mask was down and the tormented soul of her for a moment bare. “It all looks just the same as ever, doesn’t it!” she said. “And we’ve got to get through it somehow to the very end. “My dear,” began her father, and stopped. A blank hideous horror of emptiness possessed him. He shivered in the hot sunshine. There was nothing to say. He had no comfort to give her. “Heaven knows I’ve done my best,” she said. “I swore I wouldn’t let Dick’s death spoil my life. I married Fred because he could give me everything else—everything but what was impossible, and he’s a good fellow.” She paused, then went on again, her voice very low and thin. “There’s only one thing would do me any good—if I could hurt those who’ve hurt me. That God, who let all this happen. I’m not the only one. That God they teach us is almighty, and this is the best he can do for us. You don’t believe He’s there at all, father—oh no, you don’t—I’m not a fool! But I do, and I see Him watching it all happening, _letting_ it all happen, according to plan, as those damned Germans used to say. If only I could hurt them—hurt them myself. If they had only one neck that I could wring—with my own two hands—slowly—very slowly—I think that would do me good.” North pulled himself together. “How long have you been feeling like this, Vi?” he asked. “Ever since they killed Dick,” she said dully, as if the fire had smouldered down, after a sudden sheet of flame. “I think I am made up of hate, father. It’s the strongest thing in me. It’s so strong that I can’t love any more. I don’t think I love Dick now. And Fred, sometimes I hate Fred, and he’s a good fellow, you know.”