“There will be no peace!” said Ellesborough with sudden energy, “so long as there is a single German soldier left in Belgium or France!”

She saw him stiffen from head to foot—­and thrilled to the flame of avenging will that suddenly possessed him.  The male looked out upon her, kindling—­by the old, old law—­the woman in her.

“And if they don’t accept that?”

“Then the war will go on,” he said briefly, “and I shall be in for the last lap!”

His colour changed a little.  She put down her cup and bent over the fire, warming her hands.

“If it does go on, it will be fiercer than ever.”

“Very likely.  If our fellows set the pace there’ll be no dawdling.  America’s white hot.”

“And you’ll be in it?”

“I hope so,” he said quietly.

There was a pause.  Then he, looking down upon her, felt a sudden and passionate joy invade him—­joy which was also longing—­longing irresistible.  His mind had been wrestling with many scruples and difficulties during the preceding days.  Ought he to speak—­on the eve of departure—­or not?  Would she accept him?  Or was all her manner and attitude towards him merely the result of the new freedom of women?  Gradually but surely his mounting passion had idealized her.  Not only her personal ways and looks had become delightful to him, but the honourable, independent self in him had come to feel a deep admiration for and sympathy with her honourable independence, for these new powers in women that made them so strong in spite of their weakness.  She had become to him not only a woman but a heroine.  His whole heart approved and admired her when he saw her so active, so competent, so human.  And none the less the man’s natural instinct hungered to take her in his arms, to work for her, to put her back in the shelter of love and home—­ith her children at her knee....

And how domestic was this little scene in which they stood—­the firelight, the curtained room, the tea-things, her soft, bending form, with the signs of labour put away!...

The tears rushed to his eyes.  He bent over her, and spoke her name, almost unconsciously.

“Rachel!”

His soul was in the name!

She started, and looked up.  While he had been thinking only of her, her thoughts had gone wandering—­far away.  And they seemed to have brought back—­not the happy yielding of a woman to her lover—­but distress and fear.  A shock ran through him.

“Rachel!—­” He held out his hands to her.  He could not find words, but his eyes spoke, and the agitation in every feature.

But she drew back.

“Don’t—­don’t say anything—­till—­”

His look held her—­the surprise in it—­the tender appeal.  She could not take hers from it.  But the disturbance in him deepened.  For in the face she raised to him there was no flood of maidenly joy.  Suddenly—­her eyes were those of a culprit examining her judge.  A cry sprang to his lips.