which he heard above him sang “The night is dark, and I am far from home,” he felt a sort of sharp comprehension of the real meaning of homeless wandering such as he had certainly never experienced before.  He felt, too, that the spirit from which this voice proceeded could never be at home in the ordinary way of ordinary people, could not be at home even as he himself could be at home.  The spirit behind this voice needed something of which, till now, he had not consciously felt the need; something peculiar, out of the way and remote—­something very different from human love and human comfort.  Although he was musical, and could be critical about a composition according to its lights, Dion did not think about the music of this song qua music—­could not have said how good he considered it to be.  He knew only that this was not poor or insincere music.  But music sung in this peculiar way was only a means by which the under part of a human being, that which has its existence deep down under layers and layers of the things which commonly appear and are known of, rose to the surface and announced itself.

The Artists’ Rifles—­and this!

When the voice was silent, Dion went slowly upstairs.  The door of Rosamund’s little room was shut.  He paused outside it, and stood looking at it, the movable barrier of dark shining wood which divided him from the voice.  When he was ascending the stairs he had meant to go in to Rosamund.  But now he hesitated, and presently he turned away.  He felt that a greater barrier than the door was between them.  He might open the door easily enough, but the other barrier would remain.  The life of the body seemed to him just then an antagonist to the life of the soul.

“I’m on the lower plane,” said Dion to himself that evening.  “If it’s a boy, I shall have to look after his body; she’ll take care of the rest.  Perhaps mothers always do, but not as she could and will.”

From this moment he devoted himself as much as possible to his body, almost, indeed, with the ardor of one possessed by a sort of mania.  The Artists’ Corps took up part of his time; Jenkins another part; he practised rifle shooting as diligently almost as if he expected to have to take his place almost immediately in the field; he began to learn fencing.  Rosamund saw very little of him, but she made no comment.  He explained to her what he was doing.

“You see, Rose,” he said to her once, “if it’s a boy it will be my job eventually to train him up to be first-class in the distinctively man’s part of life.  No woman can ever do that.  I mustn’t let myself get slack.”

“You never would, I’m sure.”