The other words--“to death,” he somehow managed to keep from speech. Dicky suffered especially from the feeling that he was playing the boob. To be sincerely in wrong was his pet aversion--dating from the night of the Punjabi dinner. Besides, he was tortured with the thought that Pidge Musser wouldn’t thank him. Surely, for her sake, his mind repeated, it would have been better even to put old Ames straight, and let one American meet Paris unaided. But Rufe had called for him in his trouble, had mentioned the name of Cobden to the others. One of the strangest things to Dicky now was that Pidge’s husband could accept all this--somehow as if it were his due. Like a family affair. Rufe seldom spoke of Pidge. Apparently getting back to New York meant her; apparently they weren’t separated. Rufe had the most extraordinary sense of taking her for granted. If he had any money or resources in Paris, he didn’t let the fact be known. It was Dicky who purchased his passage for New York. Again Dicky’s capacity for astonishment was stretched, because Rufe seemed able to comfort himself with the fact that he had it all coming. He had never been sick before. His present infirmity was entirely engrossing. “I was gassed,” covered all discrepancies of word and deed. Back in his room, after packing Rufe aboard the steamer, Dicky found himself nervous, tired and irritable. A servant came and took out the extra bed Rufe had occupied. The place was stiller than ever, after that--no moaning, no fears, no complaints; but it wasn’t all relief as Dicky had fancied it would be. He missed something--the world was so crazy anyway--something that had taken him out of himself for two weeks; something at least, that had played upon a different set of faculties. Suddenly it dawned upon him, though he couldn’t tell why, that Pidge would be glad after all. If you play orderly and guardian and benefactor to a child--of course you miss the wretch. And Pidge was a woman, and she had said--what had she said, about there not being two ways? Now Dicky felt better. There had not been two ways for him. The chapter was ended at any rate.... Another event of this fall of 1918, so far as Dicky Cobden was concerned, was the Armistice. You can tell how inactive hope had become within him at this time, and within the breasts of tens of thousands of others, when he hadn’t believed that any other than a state of war could exist. And finally, in December, six weeks after the Armistice, at the time of the greatest rush in history for trans-Atlantic steamers, when Dicky had about concluded that the quickest way home to New York would be around by Asia, a _sepoy_ on leave crossed the city of Paris from the cantonments in Lourdenvoie, and asked to see the American at the _Garonne_. “You are Richard Cobden?” the young Hindu said, when the room door was closed.