The second was a man about fifty years of age, well known about town, a member of the Jockey Club, enjoying, as the novels say, an immense fortune and unquestionably holding a very prominent position in society. He was the organizer of most of the war charities in which Odette's help had been sought. He loaned for them his buildings and what remained to him of his staff of servants, gave to them his time and his purse. Odette had touched him with one of those lightning strokes which reach only men of that age, and after her refusal he fell violently ill, remained depressed, downcast, aged, incapable of managing his business, obliged to retire to one of his country-places, where he became oblivious of everything, even of the war and its evils, of which up to this time he had thought only to seek a remedy, thinking now only of the cruel Odette. She was as indifferent to this adventure as to the other, notwithstanding the friendly remonstrances that poured in upon her. The latter offer had been made to her through Mme. de Blauve, and this friend, while bowing to the sentiment of fidelity which bound Odette to a beloved memory, took courage to point out to her that in the midst of her married happiness she had failed to found a family. Odette, with all her intelligence, her sincere devotion, did not understand. She had loved one man; she continued to love his memory. No other idea, with whatever importance it might be clothed, commanded her respect; she understood only her own heart, which simply clung like an ivy to the tree, however dried up it might be, and to which no power could prevent her clinging. All Odette's friends shared Mme. de Blauve's opinion, however unlike they might be to this noble woman--ail of them, even to Clotilde. Yes, even Clotilde blamed her for not having at least accepted the young commandant. Odette was amazed at this, the result being that these two loving women fell out. La Villaumer, to whom Odette confided this trouble, said to her: "If your friend Clotilde were to be so unfortunate as to lose her husband, whom she adores, the chances are sixty to a hundred that after a certain time she would love another as much or almost as much as him, while you judge such a transferrence of love inadmissible." "But, after all, one loves or one does not love; that is perfectly simple!" "No, indeed, it is not so simple as that. One loves and one can love as Clotilde does, or as you do, yourself. We do not easily distinguish differences so long as lovers, being united, are happy." "You frighten me. Are there then loves that are not love? Is not sentiment the finest thing in love? And can there be a fine sentiment that is not lasting?"