impossible, and the wisdom of that which they had always maintained to
be idiotic. The voluptuous divine melancholy of evening June descended
upon the city from the sky, and even sounds were beautifully sad. The
happy progress of the war could not exorcise this soft, omnipotent
melancholy. Yet the progress of the war was nearly all that could be
desired. Verdun was held, and if Fort Vaux had been lost there had
been compensation in the fact that the enemy, through the gesture of
the Crown Prince in allowing the captured commander of the fort to
retain his sword, had done something to rehabilitate themselves in the
esteem of mankind. Lord Kitchener was drowned, but the discovery had
been announced that he was not indispensable; indeed, there were those
who said that it was better thus. The Easter Rebellion was well in
hand; order was understood to reign in an Ireland hidden behind the
black veil of the censorship. The mighty naval battle of Jutland had
quickly transformed itself from a defeat into a brilliant triumph.
The disturbing prices of food were about to be reduced by means of a
committee. In America the Republican forces were preparing to eject
President Wilson in favour of another Hughes who could be counted
upon to realise the world-destiny of the United States. An economic
conference was assembling in Paris with the object of cutting Germany
off from the rest of the human race after the war. And in eleven
days the Russians had made prisoners of a hundred and fifty thousand
Austrians, and Brusiloff had just said: "This is only the beginning."
Lastly the close prospect of the resistless Allied Western offensive
which would deracinate Prussian militarism was uplifting men's minds.

Christine walked nonchalantly and uninvitingly through the streets,
quite unresponsive to the exhilaration of events.

"Marthe!" she called, when she had let herself into the flat. Contrary