marking time with his arms in a spirited way, to the great admiration
of his old wife, and urging all to join in the chorus that very few were
able to follow.

The two friends had to take themselves home on foot. They could not find
a vehicle that would stop for them; all were hurrying in the opposite
direction toward the stations. They were both in a bad humor, but
Argensola couldn't keep his to himself.

"Ah, these women!" Desnoyers knew all about his relations (so far
honorable) with a midinette from the rue Taitbout. Sunday strolls in the
suburbs of Paris, various trips to the moving picture shows, comments
upon the fine points of the latest novel published in the sheets of a
popular paper, kisses of farewell when she took the night train from
Bois Colombes in order to sleep at home--that was all. But Argensola was
wickedly counting on Father Time to mellow the sharpest virtues. That
evening they had taken some refreshment with a French friend who was
going the next morning to join his regiment. The girl had sometimes
seen him with Argensola without noticing him particularly, but now she
suddenly began admiring him as though he were another person. She had
given up the idea of returning home that night; she wanted to see how
a war begins. The three had dined together, and all her interest had
centred upon the one who was going away. She even took offense, with
sudden modesty, when Argensola tried as he had often done before, to
squeeze her hand under the table. Meanwhile she was almost leaning her
head on the shoulder of the future hero, enveloping him with admiring
gaze.

"And they have gone. . . . They have gone away together!" said the
Spaniard bitterly. "I had to leave them in order not to make my hard