“Yes,” said Anthony, “I see.  I’ve seen it for some time.”

And Michael remembered the night in August when his brother came to him in his room.

* * * * *

Beauty—­the Forlorn Hope of God—­if he cared for it supremely, why was he pursued and tormented by the thought of the space between him and Nicky?

XXII

Michael had gone to Stephen’s house.

He was no longer at his ease there.  It seemed to him that Lawrence’s eyes followed him too; not with hatred, but with a curious meditative wonder.

To-night Stephen said to him, “Did you know that Reveillaud’s killed?”

“Killed?  Killed?  I didn’t even know he was fighting.”

Lawrence laughed.  “What did you suppose he was doing?”

“No—­but how?”

“Out with the patrol and shot down.  There you are—­”

He shoved the Times to him, pointing to the extract from Le Matin:  “It is with regret that we record the death of M. Jules Reveillaud, the brilliant young poet and critic—­”

Michael stared at the first three lines; something in his mind prevented him from going on to the rest, as if he did not care to read about Reveillaud and know how he died.

“It is with regret that we record the death.  It is with regret that we record—­with regret—­”

Then he read on, slowly and carefully, to the end.  It was a long paragraph.

“To think,” he said at last, “that this revolting thing should have happened to him.”

“His death?”

“No—­this.  The Matin never mentioned Reveillaud before.  None of the big papers, none of the big reviews noticed his existence except to sneer at him.  He goes out and gets killed like any little bourgeois, and the swine plaster him all over with their filthy praise.  He’d rather they’d spat on him.”

He meditated fiercely.  “Well—­he couldn’t help it.  He was conscripted.”

“You think he wouldn’t have gone of his own accord?”

“I’m certain he wouldn’t.”

“And I’m certain he would.”

“I wish to God we’d got conscription here.  I’d rather the Government commandeered my body than stand this everlasting interference with my soul.”

“Then,” said Lawrence, “you’ll not be surprised at my enlisting.”

“You’re not—­”

“I am.  I’d have been in the first week if I’d known what to do about Vera.”

“But—­it’s—­it’s not sane.”

“Perhaps not.  But it’s Irish.”

“Irish?  I can understand ordinary Irishmen rushing into a European row for the row’s sake, just because they haven’t got a civil war to mess about in.  But you—­of all Irishmen—­why on earth should you be in it?”

“Because I want to be in it.”

“I thought,” said Michael, “you were to have been a thorn in England’s side?”