She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror.  Escape!  She must escape!  Frank would save her.  He would give her life, perhaps love, too.  But she wanted to live.  Why should she be unhappy?  She had a right to happiness.  Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms.  He would save her.

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall.  He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again.  The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages.  Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes.  She answered nothing.  She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty.  The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist.  If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres.  Their passage had been booked.  Could she still draw back after all he had done for her?  Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart.  She felt him seize her hand: 

“Come!”

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart.  He was drawing her into them:  he would drown her.  She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.

“Come!”

No!  No!  No!  It was impossible.  Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy.  Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

“Eveline!  Evvy!”

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow.  He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her.  She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal.  Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

AFTER THE RACE

The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road.  At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homeward and through this channel of poverty and inaction the Continent sped its wealth and industry.  Now and again the clumps of people raised the cheer of the gratefully oppressed.  Their sympathy, however, was for the blue cars—­the cars of their friends, the French.

The French, moreover, were virtual victors.  Their team had finished solidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver of the winning German car was reported a Belgian.  Each blue car, therefore, received a double measure of welcome as it topped the crest of the hill and each cheer of welcome was acknowledged with smiles and nods by those in the car.  In one of these trimly built cars was a party of four young men whose spirits seemed to be at present well above the level of successful Gallicism:  in fact, these four young men were almost hilarious.  They