“Miles,” she said earnestly, “you take advice from no one. You will go your own way, I know. And yet, it seems to me that life holds so many compensations for you without your taking these terrible risks. I am not thinking of any one else. I am not pleading to you for the sake of any one else. I am thinking only of yourself. I have had a sort of feeling ever since this man was brought into the house, that trouble would come of it. To me the trouble seems to be gathering even now.” Mr. Fentolin laughed softly, a little contemptuously. “Presentiments,” he scoffed, “are the excuses of cowards. Don’t be afraid, Florence. Remember always that I look ahead. Do you think that I could stay here contented with what you call my compensations--my art, the study of beautiful things, the calm epicureanism of the sedate and simple life? You know very well that I could not do that. The craving for other things is in my heart and blood. The excitement which I cannot have in one way, I must find in another, and I think that before many nights have passed, I shall lie on my pillow and hear the guns roar, hear the footsteps of the great armies of the world moving into battle. It is for that I live, Florence.” She took up her knitting again. Her eyes were fixed upon the sky-line. Twice she opened her lips, but twice no words came. “You understand?” he whispered. “You begin to understand, don’t you?” She looked at him only for a moment and back at her work. “I suppose so,” she sighed. CHAPTER XX