He had said that he would come back.  He knew that he would not.

It was the pitiful defiance of a boaster hopelessly hurt.

He no longer desired to see her again.  Never again would he risk enduring what she had evoked in him, whatever it was of good or of evil, of the spiritual or the impure—­he did not know he was aware only of what his eyes had beheld and his heart had begun to desire.

On his way back from the office that evening he met Camilla Lent and her uncle, the Captain, and would have passed with an amiable salute, but the girl evinced a decided desire to speak.  So he turned and joined them.

“How do you do, Camilla?  How are you, Captain Lent?  This re-conversion of the nation’s ploughshares and pruning hooks is a noisy affair, isn’t it?”

“April 18th, 1861!” replied the Captain quickly.  “What you hear, sir, is the attrition consequent upon the grinding together of certain millstones belonging to the gods.”

“I have no doubt of it, Captain Lent; they’ll probably make meal of us all.  Are you offering your services, sir.”

Camilla said quickly, and with gayest confidence:  “Uncle has been looking about casually.  There are so many regiments forming, so many recruiting stations that we—­we haven’t decided—­have we, uncle?” And she gave Berkley a wistful, harrowing glance that enlightened him.

He said gravely:  “I suppose the average age of these volunteers will be about eighteen.  And if the militia go, too, it will be comforting for a defenceless city to know she has men of your experience to count on, Captain Lent.”

“I am going to the front,” observed the Captain.

“There may be much to be done in New York, sir.”

“Then let the police do it,” said Captain Lent calmly.  “The Union must and shall be preserved.  If any man attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him upon the spot.  Et cetera, sir, et cetera.”

“Certainly.  But it’s a question of niggers, too, I believe.”

“No, sir.  It is not a question of niggers.  It is a question of who’s at the wheel, Union or State.  I myself never had any doubts any more than I ever doubted the Unitarian faith!  So it is no question for me, sir.  What bothers me is to pick out the regiment most likely to be sent first.”

“We’ve walked our legs off,” said Camilla, aside, “and we’ve been in all kinds of frightful places where men are drilling and smoking and swearing and yelling; and I was dreadfully afraid a gun would go off or somebody would be impudent to uncle.  The dear old thing,” she whispered, “he is perfectly sure they want him and that he has only to choose a regiment and offer his sword.  Oh, dear!  I’m beginning to be terribly unhappy—­I’m afraid they won’t let him go and I’m deadly afraid they might!  And I’m sure that Jim means to go.  Oh, dear!  Have you seen Ailsa Paige lately?”