Driving home in the twilight, however, she had only one thought--rather one feeling. This war had dealt her a blow. She admitted that, on the day’s doings, she was worsted. Was she going to give in? Not she! Silent beside her father, up the road between the silent fields, one process only was going on in her. A hardening, a storing-up of strength. Done? She was only just beginning! * * * * * She had plenty of time for reflection as the winter wore on. Madame la Baronne did not send down to the farm for anything special enough to be made a pretext for a visit to the château. Moreover, though she longed to go and ask boldly what had happened to Georges, and was only prevented by a sure knowledge of his resentment if she exposed herself and him in that way, yet she was able to tell herself with confidence that if the very worst had happened, it would have got known--would have filtered out through the servants, through Masses announced in church, through mourning worn by the Baron and Madame. But there were no rumors, no horror-stricken whispers, no sign of black in Madame’s dress or in what the Baron called his “sports” (indicating cloths of material that meant to be Scotch tweed, color meant to be khaki, cut meant to be that of an English gentleman out shooting--but which failed at all points, as Frenchmen’s clothes so often do). So far, so good. There existed in Madeleine, as in so many women of those days, the queerest contradiction. Fearing daily and desperately the very worst--death to their loved man--they never could believe in it happening, often even when it did actually happen, as was usual in those years. Relieved, respited at least from the major anxiety--for Georges must be in hospital or depot somewhere, and out of the fighting, Madeleine began to be a prey to a lesser--to know what had happened to him? which led her curiosity to explore the unknown at least once a day. * * * * * Meanwhile, the war that had dealt her that private blow was gentle with her. The English kept on increasing. Seldom was the farm without its happy-go-lucky khaki crowd, whose slang, mixed with Indian words learned from old regular soldiers, and cheerful attempts at anglicized French phrases, Madeleine learned and used, as she learned the decorous politeness of the older officers, the shy good humor of the younger ones. Many a good sum did Blanquart pay her for billeting, many a neat bill did she receipt for anxious Mess Presidents. It was a queer education for a girl of her sort. At the convent school she had committed to memory certain facts about England and its people, not because they interested her, but because she soon discovered that it was easier to do lessons than to be punished for not doing them, and because her scheming mind knew by practice, if not by theory, that knowledge is power. And now she was having an object-lesson in very deed.