“True!” Lanstron agreed.  “A victory over yourself!”

“How often I have heard in imagination the outbreak of rifle-fire down there by the white posts!  How often I have longed for that day—­for war!  I live for war!”

“It may never come,” Lanstron said in frank protest.  “And, for God’s sake, don’t pray for it in that way!”

“Then I shall be patient—­patient under all irritations.  The worst is,” and Feller raised his head heavily, in a way that seemed to emphasize both his stoop and his age, “the worst is Miss Galland.”

“Miss Galland!  How?”

“She is learning the deaf-and-dumb alphabet in order the better to communicate with me.  She likes to talk of the flowers—­gardening is a passion with her, too—­and all the while, in face of the honesty of those big eyes of hers and of her gentle old mother’s confidence, I am living a lie!  Oh, the satire of it!  And I have not been used to lying.  That is my only virtue; at any rate, I was never a liar!”

“Then, why stay, Gustave?  I will find something else for you.”

“No!” Feller shot back irritably.  “No!” he repeated resolutely.  “I don’t want to go!  I mean to be game—­I—­” He shifted his gaze dismally from the bush which he still pretended to examine and suddenly broke off with:  “Miss Galland is coming!”

He started to move away with a gardener’s shuffling steps, looking from right to left for weeds.  Then pausing, he glanced back, his face in another transformation—­that of a comedian.

“La, la, la!” he clucked, tossing his head gayly.  “Depend on me, Lanny!  They’ll never know I’m not deaf.  I get my blue fits only on Sundays!  And deafness has its compensations.  Think if I had to listen to all the stories of my table companion, Peter, the coachman!  La, la, la!” he clucked again, before disappearing around a bend in the path.  “La, la, la!  I’m the man for this part!”

Lanstron started toward the steps that Marta was ascending.  She moved leisurely, yet with a certain springy energy that suggested that she might have come on the run without being out of breath or seeming to have made an effort.  Without seeing him, she paused before one of the urns of hydrangeas in full bloom that flanked the third terrace wall, and, as if she would encompass and plunge her spirit into their abundant beauty, she spread out her arms and drew the blossoms together in a mass in which she half buried her face.  The act was delightful in its grace and spontaneity.  It was like having a page out of her secret self.  It brought the glow of his great desire into Lanstron’s eyes.

“Hello, stranger!” she called as she saw him, and quickened her pace.

“Hello, pedagogue!” he responded.

As they shook hands they swung their arms back and forth like a pair of romping children for a moment.

“We had a grand session of the school this morning, the largest class ever!” she said.  “And the points we scored off you soldiers!  You’ll find disarmament already in progress when you return to headquarters.  We’re irresistible, or at least,” she added, with a flash of intensity, “we’re going to be some day.”