Poor Desnoyers! . . .  The longing to see her, and the lack of occupation in these interminable afternoons which hitherto had been employed so delightfully, compelled him to haunt the neighborhood of the unoccupied palace where the government had just established the training school for nurses.  Stationing himself at the corner, watching the fluttering skirts and quick steps of the feminine feet on the sidewalk, he imagined that the course of time must have turned backward, and that he was still but eighteen—­the same as when he used to hang around the establishments of some celebrated modiste.  The groups of women that at certain hours came out of the palace suggested these former days.  They were dressed extremely quietly, the aspect of many of them as humble as that of the seamstresses.  But they were ladies of the well-to-do class, some even coming in automobiles driven by chauffeurs in military uniform, because they were ministerial vehicles.

These long waits often brought him unexpected encounters with the elegant students who were going and coming.

“Desnoyers!” some feminine voices would exclaim behind him.  “Isn’t it Desnoyers?”

And he would find himself obliged to relieve their doubts, saluting the ladies who were looking at him as though he were a ghost.  They were friends of a remote epoch, of six months ago—­ladies who had admired and pursued him, trusting sweetly to his masterly wisdom to guide them through the seven circles of the science of the tango.  They were now scrutinizing him as if between their last encounter and the present moment had occurred a great cataclysm, transforming all the laws of existence—­as if he were the sole survivor of a vanished race.

Eventually they all asked the same questions—­“Are you not going to the war? . . .  How is it that you are not wearing a uniform?”

He would attempt to explain, but at his first words, they would interrupt him: 

“That’s so. . . .  You are a foreigner.”

They would say it with a certain envy, doubtless thinking of their loved ones now suffering the privations and dangers of war. . . .  But the fact that he was a foreigner would instantly create a vague atmosphere of spiritual aloofness, an alienation that Julio had not known in the good old days when people sought each other without considering nationality, without feeling that disavowal of danger which isolates and concentrates human groups.

The ladies generally bade him adieu with malicious suspicion.  What was he doing hanging around there?  In search of his usual lucky adventure? . . .  And their smiles were rather grave, the smiles of older folk who know the true significance of life and commiserate the deluded ones still seeking diversion in frivolities.

This attitude was as annoying to Julio as though it were a manifestation of pity.  They were supposing him still exercising the only function of which he was capable; he wasn’t good for anything else.  On the other hand, these empty heads, still keeping something of their old appearance, now appeared animated by the grand sentiment of maternity—­an abstract maternity which seemed to be extending to all the men of the nation—­a desire for self-sacrifice, of knowing first-hand the privations of the lowly, and aiding all the ills that flesh is heir to.