while his appeal—­an appeal with a little of the Christ spirit in it, from one Christian nation to another to stop the murder—­is read to the Gray soldiers and ours; to those who have to suffer and die!  Oh, I’d like to help write that appeal, telling the women what I have seen!  Do you think if it were given to the world that the Grays would still come on?  Ask him, Lanny, ask him to make that simple human appeal, as brother to brother, to the court of all humanity!  Ask him, please, Lanny!”

“I shall, Marta!” he replied seriously, in respect for her seriousness throbbing with the abandoned play of her vitality, though he knew how fruitless the request would be.  He loved her the more for this outburst.  He loved her for her quick sympathies with any one in trouble, whether Feller or Minna; for all of her inconsistencies which were so real to her; for her dreams, her visions, her impulses, because she tried to put them in action, and he envied Feller for having fought in defence of her house.  How could he expect her to interest herself exclusively in him as one human being when all human beings interested her so profoundly?  If the world were peopled with Martas and their disciples then her proposal would be practicable.

“That’s fine of you, Lanny!” she said.  “You’ve taken it like a good stoic, this loss of your thousandth chance.  You really believed in it, didn’t you?”

“Forgotten already, like the many other thousandth chances that have failed,” he replied cheerfully.  “One of the virtues of Partow’s steel automatons is that, being tearless as well as passionless, they never cry over spilt milk.  And now,” he went on soberly, “we must be saying good-by.”

“Good-by, Lanny?  Why, what do you mean?” She was startled.

“Till the war is over,” he said, “and longer than that, perhaps, if La Tir remains in Gray territory.”

“You speak as if you thought you were going to lose!”

“Not while many of our soldiers are alive, if they continue to show the spirit that they have shown so far; not unless two men can crush one man in the automatic-gun-recoil age.  But La Tir is in a tangent and already in the Grays’ possession, while we act on the defensive.  So I should hardly be flying over your garden again.”

“But there’s the telephone, Lanny, and here we are talking over it this very minute!” she expostulated.

“You must remove it,” he said.  “If the Grays should discover it they might form a suspicion that would put you in an unpleasant position.”

The telephone had become almost a familiar institution in her thoughts.  Its secret had something of the fascination for her of magic.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed.  “I am going to be very lonely.  I want to learn how Feller is doing—­I want to chat with you.  So I decide not to let it be taken out.  And, you see, I have the tactical situation, as you soldiers call it, all in my favor.  The work of removal must be done at my end of the line.  You’re quite helpless to enforce your wishes.  And, Lanny, if I ring the bell you’ll answer, won’t you?”