the Sculptor, had made an early and hurried run to Paris. So we saw
little of each other until we gathered for dinner, and the
conversation was calm--in fact subdued.

The Doctor was especially quiet. No one was really gay except the
Youngster. He talked of what he had seen in Paris--the silent
streets--the moods of the women--the sight of officers in khaki flying
about in big touring cars--and no one asked what had really taken them
to town.

The Trained Nurse and I had walked to the nearest village, but we
brought back little in the way of news. The only interesting thing we
saw was _Monsieur le Curé_ talking to a handsome young peasant woman
in the square before the church. We heard her say, with a sob in her
throat, "If my man does not come back, I'll never say my prayers
again. I'll never pray to a God who let this thing happen unless my
man comes back."

"She will, just the same," said the Lawyer. "One of the strangest
features of such a catastrophe is that it steadies a race, especially
the race convinced that it has right on its side."

"It goes deeper than that," said the Journalist. "It strikes millions
with the same pain, and they bear together what they could not have
faced separately."

"True," remarked the Doctor, "and that is one reason why I have always
mistrusted the effort of people outside the radius of disaster to help
in anyway, except scientifically."