It was an attractive scene, but Felicity's face drooped listlessly, and Stefan, hands deep in the pockets of his white trousers, lay back in his wicker chair with an expression of nervous irritability. It was early, for the night had been too hot for late sleeping, and Yo San had not yet brought in the newspapers and letters. Paris was tense. Germany and Russia had declared war. France was mobilizing. Perhaps already the axe had fallen. Held by the universal anxiety, Stefan and Felicity had lingered on in Paris after her return from Biarritz, instead of traveling to Brittany as they had planned. Stefan had another reason for remaining, which he had not imparted to Felicity. He was waiting for Mary's letter. It was already overdue, and now that any hour might bring it he was wretchedly nervous as to the result. He did not yet wish to break with Felicity, but still less did he wish to lose Mary. Without having analyzed it to himself, he would have liked to keep the Byrdsnest and all that it contained as a warm and safe haven to return to after his stormy flights. He neither wished to be anchored nor free; he desired both advantages, and the knowledge that he would be called upon to forego one frayed his nerves. Life was various--why sacrifice its fluid beauty to frozen forms? “Stefan,” murmured Felicity, from behind her drooping mask, “we have had three golden months, but I think they are now over.” “What do you mean?” he asked crossly. “Disharmony”--she waved a white hand--“is in the air. Beauty--the arts--are to give place to barbarity. In a world of war, how can we taste life delicately? We cannot. Already, my friend, the blight has fallen upon you. Your nerves are harsh and jangled. I think”--she folded her hands and sank back on her green cushions--“I shall make a pilgrimage to China.” “All of which,” said Stefan with a short laugh, “is an elaborate way of saying you are tired of me.” Her eyebrows raised themselves a fraction. “You are wonderfully attractive, Stefan; you fascinate me as a panther fascinates by its lithe grace, and your mind has the light and shade of running brooks.” Stefan looked pleased. “But,” she went on, her lids still drooping, “I must have harmony. In an atmosphere of discords I cannot live. Of your present discordant mood, my friend, I _am_ tired, and I could not permit myself to continue to feel bored. When I am bored, I change my milieu.” “You are no more bored than I am, I assure you,” he snapped rudely. “It is such remarks as those,” breathed Felicity, “which make love impossible.” Her eyes closed. He pushed back his chair. “Oh, my dear girl, do have some sense of humor,” he said, fumbling for a cigarette. Yo San entered with a folded newspaper, and a plate of letters for Felicity. She handed one to Stefan. “Monsieur Adolph leave this,” she said.