“No, Blair.  All for a principle,” observed Lane.  “Red was fired out of the hospital without a dollar.  There was something terribly wrong.”

“Wrong?...  God Almighty!” burst out Blair, with hard passion.  “Let me read you something in this same paper.”  With shaking hands he unfolded it, searched until he found what he wanted, and began to read: 

“’If the actual needs of disabled veterans require the expenditure of much money, then unquestionably a majority of the taxpayers of the country will favor spending it.  Despite the insistent demand for economy in Washington that is arising from every part of the country, no member of House or Senate will have occasion to fear that he is running counter to popular opinion when eventually he votes to take generous care of disabled soldiers.’”

Blair’s trembling voice ceased, and then twisting the newspaper into a rope, he turned to Lane.  “Dare, can you understand that?...  Red Payson was a bull-headed boy, not over bright.  But you and I have some intelligence, I hope.  We can allow for the immense confusion at Washington—­the senselessness of red tape—­the callosity of politicians.  But when we remember the eloquent calls to us boys—­the wonderfully worded appeals to our patriotism, love of country and home—­the painted posters bearing the picture of a beautiful American girl—­or a young mother with a baby—­remembering these deep, passionate calls to the best in us, can you understand that sort of talk now?”

“Blair, I think I can,” replied Lane.  “Then—­before and after the draft—­the whole country was at a white heat of all that the approach of war rouses.  Fear, self-preservation, love of country, hate of the Huns, inspired patriotism, and in most everybody the will to fight and to sacrifice....  The war was a long, hideous, soul-racking, nerve-destroying time.  When it ended, and the wild period of joy and relief had its run, then all that pertained to the war sickened and wearied and disgusted the majority of people.  It’s ‘forget the war.’  You and Payson and I got home a year too late.”

“Then—­it’s just—­monstrous,” said Blair, heavily.

“That’s all, Blair.  Just monstrous.  But we can’t beat our spirits out against this wall.  No one can understand us—­how alone we are.  Let’s forget that—­this wall—­this thing called government.  Shall we spend what time we have to live always in a thunderous atmosphere of mind—­hating, pondering, bitter?”

“No.  I’ll make a compact with you,” returned Blair, with flashing eyes.  “Never to speak again of that—­so long as we live!”

“Never to a living soul,” rejoined Lane, with a ring in his voice.

They shook hands much the same as when they had met half an hour earlier.

“So!” exclaimed Blair, with a deep breath.  “And now, Dare, tell me how you made out with Helen.  You cut me short over the ’phone.”

“Blair, that day coming into New York on the ship, you didn’t put it half strong enough,” replied Lane.  Then he told Blair about the call he had made upon Helen, and what had transpired at her studio.