there ever was a better opportunity for adopting the theocratic conception of the world, for men are at this moment given over to the elements, and the greatest political genius imaginable would probably be powerless so long as the convulsions with which the world is attacked are not quieted of themselves. In these conditions there is no room in the home of a poor fellow for any but the virtues of pity and affection. I confess the fact, my dear Odette, I can no longer control my heart." "To be moved to compassion is to be weakened, I have been told." "There is truth in that opinion so far as those persons are concerned who are more especially called by circumstances to act, and especially to direct the actions of others; such must put on blinders and look only to the immediate purpose which demands all their energies. But it is desirable that in the midst of this tempest-tossed world a few contemplative persons shall devote themselves to pity as to the conservation of a 'precious blood'; if only for the sake of the efficacy, or at least of the beauty of the thing. And the worshippers at this altar will need to contend--do you know with whom?--with humanity itself, which has little remembrance of its own ills, and which, like a kitten, hastens to play with the first ray of sunshine. It is true that the dead keep a great silence." XXXI Odette was at home one evening, and alone. Stretched out upon a lounge, she was gazing at the photographs of Jean on little tables or within her reach upon the walls, hypnotizing herself with the sight of them, kissing them as she always did. Amelia came in saying that the next apartment was "crammed full." "Madame, if there aren't twenty men six feet high in that room, my own poor husband isn't a prisoner with the Boches!" In fact there was a great commotion on the other side of the partition. Furniture and chairs were being moved about, and as all sounds penetrated through the cracks of the door, the syllables of an unfamiliar language could be heard, perhaps Rumanian or Russian. The neighbor was a foreigner. Suddenly there was silence. Amelia had withdrawn. It was an imposed, perhaps a concerted, silence. "It is a musical recital," said Odette to herself. In fact she almost immediately recognized the sprightly touch of the pianist, mellow, languishing, melting into the keyboard as into a tender flesh, by turns nervous, light, cruel as a hammer, heavy as a pile-driver, seeming to crush the instrument, then suddenly soft, fluttering on the keys like the wing of a dying bird. Though the woman often played for herself alone, this was not the first time that many people had gathered around her to hear her music.