.

.

Why think of such things in these anxious times!" The world around her seemed saturated with love, but it was a new love--a love for the man who is suffering, desire for abnegation, for sacrifice.

This love called forth visions of white caps, of tremulous hands healing shell-riddled and bleeding flesh.
Every advance on Julio's part but aroused in Marguerite a vehement and modest protest as though they were meeting for the first time.
"It is impossible," she protested.

"I keep thinking of my brother, and of so many that I know that may be dying at this very minute." News of battles were beginning to arrive, and blood was beginning to flow in great quantities.
"No, no, I cannot," she kept repeating.
And when Julio finally triumphed, he found that her thoughts were still following independently the same line of mental stress.
One afternoon, Marguerite announced that henceforth she would see him less frequently.