“You’ll hurt him a lot more by marrying him when you don’t love him.”

“If only I could have a little time,” she cried wildly.  “I’m so—­I’m tired, Belle.  And I can’t forget about the war and all that.  I’ve tried.  Sometimes I think if we could talk it over together I’d get it out of my mind.”

“He won’t talk about it?”

“He’s my own brother, and I love him dearly.  But sometimes I think he’s hard.  Not that he’s ever ugly,” she hastened to add; “but he’s stubborn.  There’s a sort of wall in him, and he puts some things behind it.  And it’s like beating against a rock to try to get at them.”

After a little silence she said hesitatingly: 

“We’ve got him to think of too.  He has a right to be happy.  Sometimes I’ve looked at you—­you’re so pretty, Sara Lee—­and I’ve wondered if there wasn’t some one over there who—­cared for you.”

“There was one man, an officer—­Oh, Belle, I can’t tell you.  Not you!”

“Why not!” asked Belle practically.  “You ought to talk it out to some one, and if Harvey insists on being a fool that’s his own fault.”

For all the remainder of that sunny morning Sara Lee talked what was in her heart.  And Belle—­poor, romantic, starved Belle—­heard and thrilled.  She made buttonholes as she listened, but once or twice a new tone in Sara Lee’s voice caused her to look up.  Here was a new Sara Lee, a creature of vibrant voice and glowing eyes; and Belle was not stupid.  She saw that it was Henri whose name brought the deeper note.

Sara Lee had stopped with her recall, had stopped and looked about the room with its shiny new furniture and had shivered.  Belle bent over her work.

“Why don’t you go back?” she asked.

Sara Lee looked at her piteously.

“How can I?  There is Harvey.  And the society would not send me again.  It’s over, Belle.  All over.”

After a pause Belle said:  “What’s become of Henri?  He hasn’t written, has he?”

Sara Lee got up and went to the window.

“I don’t know where he is.  He may be dead.”

Her voice was flat and lifeless.  Belle knew all that she wanted to know.  She rose and gathered up her sewing.

“I’m going to talk to Harvey.  You’re not going to be rushed into a wedding.  You’re tired, and it’s all nonsense.  Well, I’ll have to run now and dress the children.”

That night Harvey and Belle had almost a violent scene.  He had taken Sara Lee over the Leete house that evening.  Will Leete’s widow had met them there, a small sad figure in her mourning, but very composed, until she opened the door into a tiny room upstairs with a desk and a lamp in it.

“This was Will’s study,” she said.  “He did his work here in the evenings, and I sat in that little chair and sewed.  I never thought then—­” Her lips quivered.

“Pretty rotten of Will Leete to leave that little thing alone,” said Harvey on their way home.  “He had his fling; and she’s paying for it.”