Yet the war levied high toll on her waking hours, and for that reason Thompson seldom saw her save in company.  His vision of little dinners, of drives together, of impromptu luncheons, of a steady siege in which the sheer warmth of that passion in him should force capitulation to his love—­all those pleasant dreams went a-glimmering.  Sophie was always on some committee, directing some activity growing out of the war, Red Cross work, Patriotic Fund, all those manifold avenues through which the women fought their share of Canada’s fight.  For a pleasure-loving creature Sophie Carr seemed to have undergone an astonishing metamorphosis.  She spent on these things, quietly, without parade or press-agenting, all the energy in her, and she had no reserve left for play.  War work seemed to mean something to Sophie besides write-ups in the society column and pictures of her in sundry poses.  These things besides, surrounded her with all sorts of fussy people, both male and female, and through this cordon Thompson seldom broke for confidential talk with her.  When he did Sophie baffled him with her calm detachment, a profound and ever-increasing reserve—­as if she had ceased to be a woman and become a mere, coldly beautiful mechanism for seeing about shipments of bandage stuff, for collecting funds, and devising practical methods of raising more funds and creating more supplies.

Thompson said as much to her one day.  She looked at him unmoved, unsmiling.  And something that lurked in her clear gray eyes made him uncomfortable, sent him away wondering.  It was as if somehow she disapproved.  A shadowy impression at best.  He wondered if Tommy fared any better, and he was constrained to think Tommy did because Tommy went in for patriotic work a good deal, activities that threw him in pretty close contact with Sophie.

“I can spare the time,” he confided to Thompson one day.  “And it’s good business.  I meet some pretty influential people.  Why don’t you spread yourself a little more, Wes?  They’ll be saying you’re a slacker if you don’t make a noise.”

“I don’t fight the Germans with my mouth,” Thompson responded shortly.  And Tommy laughed.

“That’s a popular weapon these days,” he returned lightly.  “It does no harm to go armed with it.”

Thompson refrained from further speech.  That very morning in the lobby of the Granada Thompson had heard one man sneer at another for a slacker—­and get knocked down for his pains.  He did not want to inflict that indignity on Tommy, and he felt that he would if Tommy made any more cynical reflections.

Of course, that was a mere flaring-up of resentment at the fact that, to save his soul, he could not get off the fence.  He could not view the war as a matter vital to himself; nor could he do like Tommy Ashe, play patriotic tunes with one hand while the other reached slyly forth to grasp power and privilege of whatever degree came within reach.