sonality. He tried to forget them. For three weeks he tried to forget them.
He had taken a long walk by himself after Barbara's information at the luncheon-table. At the end of that walk he had concluded not to try to see Miss Oliver again. He had known her but a scant ten days. It would be easy to blot her out now. The more he thought about it, the more reasonable Barbara's interpretation of the stranger seemed to him. Elizabeth Oliver was just a gay butterfly sort of girl, whom the war hadn't touched, and who fluttered away from horror as spontaneously as a bird from a squalid alley in a city. How else explain the trembling chin, which she had obviously tried but failed to hide?
Strange, it occurred to Vincent a week later, that the charms of such a girl had taken so strong a hold upon him. Alarming, he called it, after another seven days had worn themselves by, and still the sound of her voice, the tilt of her chin, the slant of her sideways glances, persisted in haunting him. It troubled Vincent—became a source of new anxiety. Had he become absolutely incapable of controlling his thoughts? Elizabeth Oliver flitted in and out through his brain as obstinately almost as the young German in the shell-hole.
