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 As they walked through the fields Paul read the letter to Phœbe.

"Mark will be a good soldier," she commented.

"Yes—for men like him the war means emancipation. For men like Wilfrid Fraser it would mean torture, slavery, and death. Sensibilities are a luxury society dispenses with in . The arrangement would be more successful if the sensitive men could dispense with their own sensibilities at a given signal. But butterflies don't revert into caterpillars."

"Just the same," said Phœbe, with a hint of hostility, "Wilfrid is doing his bit."

"That's such a glib word, Phœbe—'bit.' You who are so meticulous, why don't you avoid it?" He spoke more testily than the trifle warranted, his nerves showing the strain of increasingly intensive propagandapropaganda. [sic]

He knew her feelings were hurt, for she half turned from him. With a tinge of pride and a tinge of appeal in his tones he apologized. Some maternal instinct stirred in her, and she took his arm.

"I'm trying to understand you, Paul," she said. "But you're so different from everybody I know!"

He was moved, "At any rate you don't despise me—that's something to hold to."

"Oh Paul—despise!" There were tears in her voice.

They had reached a deserted grove of alders behind the Meddar cottage. Suddenly he took Phœbe in his arms and kissed her—gently. For some time her face lay against his shoulder. When she finally looked up she gave him an anxious smile. Her eyes were like wet violets.

He held her close, as if to assure himself by sheer contact that he had not made a mistake.

Gradually it became apparent to Paul that Phœbe staggered under the weight of his anomalous status. The