A little shiver ran through Noel, and she looked appealingly at Lavendie.

“Barra,” he said, as if the soldier were not there, “is a great painter, but the Front has turned his head a little.  What he says is true, though.  There is no hatred out there.  It is here that we are prisoners of hatred, mademoiselle; avoid hatreds—­they are poison!”

His wife put out her hand and touched the child’s shoulder.

“Why should we not hate?” she said.  “Who killed Chica’s father, and blew her home to-rags?  Who threw her out into this horrible England—­pardon, mademoiselle, but it is horrible.  Ah! les Boches!  If my hatred could destroy them there would not be one left.  Even my husband was not so mad about his painting when we lived at home.  But here—!” Her eyes darted at his face again, and then sank as if rebuked.  Noel saw the painter’s lips move.  The sick woman’s whole figure writhed.

“It is mania, your painting!” She looked at Noel with a smile.  “Will you have some tea, mademoiselle?  Monsieur Barra, some tea?”

The soldier said thickly:  “No, madame; in the trenches we have tea enough.  It consoles us.  But when we get away—­give us wine, le bon vin; le bon petit vin!”

“Get some wine, Pierre!”

Noel saw from the painter’s face that there was no wine, and perhaps no money to get any; but he went quickly out.  She rose and said: 

“I must be going, madame.”

Madame Lavendie leaned forward and clutched her wrist.  “Wait a little, mademoiselle.  We shall have some wine, and Pierre shall take you back presently.  You cannot go home alone—­you are too pretty.  Is she not, Monsieur Barra?”

The soldier looked up:  “What would you say,” he said, “to bottles of wine bursting in the air, bursting red and bursting white, all day long, all night long?  Great steel bottles, large as Chica:  bits of bottles, carrying off men’s heads?  Bsum, garra-a-a, and a house comes down, and little bits of people ever so small, ever so small, tiny bits in the air and all over the ground.  Great souls out there, madame.  But I will tell you a secret,” and again he gave his heavy giggle, “all a little, little mad; nothing to speak of—­just a little bit mad; like a watch, you know, that you can wind for ever.  That is the discovery of this war, mademoiselle,” he said, addressing Noel for the first time, “you cannot gain a great soul till you are a little mad.”  And lowering his piggy grey eyes at once, he resumed his former attitude.  “It is that madness I shall paint some day,” he announced to the carpet; “lurking in one tiny corner of each soul of all those millions, as it creeps, as it peeps, ever so sudden, ever so little when we all think it has been put to bed, here—­there, now—­then, when you least think; in and out like a mouse with bright eyes.  Millions of men with white souls, all a little mad.  A great subject, I think,” he added heavily.  Involuntarily Noel put her hand to her heart, which was beating fast.  She felt quite sick.