married for love,--urged thereto by a headlong, unquestioning,
uncritical passion. But there were no obstacles. His passion was
returned. There was nothing to make him ponder upon what a
devastating, tyrannical force this emotion which he knew as love might
become, this blind fever of the blood under cover of which nature
works her ends, blandly indifferent to the consequences.

Hollister was happy. He was ambitious. He threw himself with energy
into a revival of his father's business when it came into his hands.
His needs expanded with his matrimonial obligations. Considered
casually--which was chiefly the manner of his consideration--his
future was the future of a great many young men who begin life under
reasonably auspicious circumstances. That is to say, he would be a
success financially and socially to as great an extent as he cared to
aspire. He would acquire wealth and an expanding influence in his
community. He would lead a tolerably pleasant domestic existence. He
would be proud of his wife's beauty, her charm; he would derive a
soothing contentment from her affection. He would take pleasure in
friendships. In the end, of course, at some far-off, misty mile-post,
he would begin to grow old. Then he would die in a dignified manner,
full of years and honors, and his children would carry on after him.

Hollister failed to reckon with the suavities of international
diplomacy, with the forces of commercialism in relation to the markets
of the world.

The war burst upon and shattered the placidity of his existence very
much as the bombs from the first Zeppelins shattered the peace and
security of London and Paris.