“You know, Harvey, Sara Lee’s not—­I always think she’s different, somehow.”

“Well, I guess yes!  There’s nobody like her.”

“You can’t bully her, you know.”

Harvey stared at her with honestly perplexed eyes.

“Bully!” he said.  “What on earth makes you say that?”

Then he laughed.

“Don’t you worry, Belle,” he said.  “I know I’m a fierce and domineering person, but if there’s any bullying I know who’ll do it.”

“She’s not like the other girls you know,” she reiterated rather helplessly.

“Sure she’s not!  But she’s enough like them to need a house to live in.  And if she isn’t crazy about the Leete place I’ll eat it.”

He banged out cheerfully, whistling as he went down the street.  He stopped whistling, however, at Sara Lee’s door.  The neighborhood preserved certain traditions as to a house of mourning.  It lowered its voice in passing and made its calls of condolence in dark clothes and a general air of gloom.  Pianos near by were played only with the windows closed, and even the milkman leaving his bottles walked on tiptoe and presented his monthly bill solemnly.

So Harvey stopped whistling, rang the bell apologetically, and—­faced a new and vivid Sara Lee, flushed and with shining eyes, but woefully frightened.

She told him almost at once.  He had only reached the dining room of the Leete house, which he was explaining had a white wainscoting when she interrupted him.  The ladies of the Methodist Church were going to collect a certain amount each month to support a soup kitchen as near the Front as possible.

“Good work!” said Harvey heartily.  “I suppose they do get hungry, poor devils.  Now about the dining room—­”

“Harvey dear,” Sara Lee broke in, “I’ve not finished.  I—­I’m going over to run it.”

“You are not!”

“But I am!  It’s all arranged.  It’s my plan.  They’ve all wanted to do something besides giving clothes.  They send barrels, and they never hear from them again, and it’s hard to keep interested.  But with me there, writing home and telling them, ’To-day we served soup to this man, and that man, perhaps wounded.’  And—­and that sort of thing—­ don’t you see how interested every one will be?  Mrs. Gregory has promised twenty-five dollars a month, and—­”

“You’re not going,” said Harvey in a flat tone.  “That’s all.  Don’t talk to me about it.”

Sara Lee flushed deeper and started again, but rather hopelessly.  There was no converting a man who would not argue or reason, who based everything on flat refusal.

“But somebody must go,” she said with a tightening of her voice.  “Here’s Mabel Andrews’ letter.  Read it and you will understand.”

“I don’t want to read it.”

Nevertheless he took it and read it.  He read slowly.  He did nothing quickly except assert his masculine domination.  He had all the faults of his virtues; he was as slow as he was sure, as unimaginative as he was faithful.