From the north another shell came whistling and quavering through the sky, passing above them with long-drawn screech which left the windows singing.
“That,” he blurted out, “was too near for comfort.”
They were silent for a while, then he spoke again gayly: “Go on, Sylvia, and wither poor West:” but she only sighed, “Oh, dear, I can never seem to get used to the shells.”
He sat down on the arm of the chair beside her.
Her scissors fell jingling to the floor; she tossed the unfinished frock after them, and putting both arms about his neck drew him down into her lap.
“Don’t go out to-night, Jack.”
He kissed her uplifted face; “You know I must; don’t make it hard for me.”
“But when I hear the shells and—and know you are out in the city———”
“But they all fall in Montmartre———”
“They may all fall in the Beaux Arts, you said yourself that two struck the Quai d’Orsay———”
“Mere accident———”
“Jack, have pity on me! Take me with you!”
“And who will there be to get dinner?”
She rose and flung herself on the bed.
“Oh, I can’t get used to it and I know you must go, but I beg you not to be late to dinner. If you knew what I suffer! I—I—cannot help it and you must be patient with me, dear.”
He said, “It is as safe there as it is in our own house.”
She watched him fill for her the alcohol
