all night like a forgotten dog, and a sense of philosophy about
sleep. That is, that eleven o'clock P.M. was bed-time to some
people, but was just eleven o'clock for him.

When he went to church he listened to the sermon, but rather often
he looked at Elizabeth Wheeler. When his eyes wandered, as the most
faithful eyes will now and then, they were apt to rest on the flag
that had hung, ever since the war, beside the altar. He had fought
for his country in a sea of mud, never nearer than two hundred miles
to the battle line, fought with a surgical kit instead of a gun, but
he was content. Not to all the high adventure.

Had he been asked, suddenly, the name of the tall blonde girl who
sang among the sopranos, he could not have told it.

The Sunday morning following Clare Rossiter's sentimental confession,
Elizabeth tried very hard to banish all worldly thoughts, as usual,
and to see the kneeling, rising and sitting congregation as there
for worship. But for the first time she wondered. Some of the faces
were blank, as though behind the steady gaze the mind had wandered
far afield, or slept. Some were intent, some even devout. But for
the first time she began to feel that people in the mass might be
cruel, too. How many of them, for instance, would sometime during
the day pass on, behind their hands, the gossip Clare had mentioned?

She changed her position, and glanced quickly over the church. The
Livingstone pew was fully occupied, and well up toward the front,
Wallie Sayre was steadfastly regarding her. She looked away quickly.

Came the end of the service. Came down the aisle the Courtney boy,