Fallaray’s eager hands fell suddenly to his sides. The word that had come to Lola as an inspiration, though it broke her heart to use it, hit him like a well-aimed stone. Deserter!—A man who turned and ran, who slunk away from the fight at its moment of crisis, who absconded from duty in violation of all traditions of service, thinking of no one but himself. Deserter! It was the right word, the damnable right word that rears itself up for every man to read at the crossroads of life.—And he stood looking at this girl who had brought him back to a momentary youth through a glamor that gave way to the cold light of duty. His was a pitiful figure, middle-aged, love-hungry, doomed to be sacrificed upon the altar of public service. Lytham didn’t rejoice at the sight, having sympathy and imagination. Neither did Feo, who had just lost her own grasp upon a dream. “Is it possible that you love me so much?” he asked. And Lola said, “Yes, yes!” It was on Lytham’s tongue to say, “My dear man, don’t you gather what I mean by the ‘sane thing’? There’s no need to take this in the spirit of a Knight Crusader. A little nest somewhere, discreetly guarded.” And it was on Feo’s tongue to add, also completely modern, “Of course. Why not? Isn’t it done every day? No one need know, and if it’s ever found out, isn’t it the unwritten law to protect the reputations of public men so long as there is no irate husband to stir up our hypocritical moral sense by bringing the thing into the open?” But neither spoke. There was something in the way in which Lola stood, brave but trembling, that kept them silent; something in Fallaray’s expression of adoration and respect that made them feel ashamed of their materialism. They were ignorant of all that had gone to the making of Lola’s apprenticeship to give that lonely man the rustle of silk, and of the fact that he had grown to love this girl not as a mistress, but as a wife. And after a silence that held them breathless, Fallaray spoke again. “I must be worthy of you, my little Lola,” he said, “and not desert. I will go on with the glory of your love as a banner—and if I die first, I will wait for you on the other side of the Bridge.” “I will be faithful,” she said. He held out his arms, and she rushed into them with a great cry, pressed herself to his heart, and took her last living kiss. “Till then,” said Fallaray finally, letting her go. But nothing more came from Lola except a groping movement of her hands. At the door, square of shoulder, Fallaray beckoned to Lytham and went out and up to his room. It was Feo who wept. VI