. . far
. . . very far, even to the point of not recognizing each other when
their glances met.
He continued to be conscious of this impalpable obstacle in their
following interviews. Marguerite was extremely affectionate in her
speech, and would look at him with moist and loving eyes. But her
caressing hands appeared more like those of a mother than a lover, and
her tenderness was accompanied with a certain disinterestedness and
extraordinary modesty. She seemed to prefer remaining obstinately in the
studio, declining to go into the other rooms.
"We are so comfortable here. . . . I would rather not. . . . It is not
worth while. I should feel remorse afterwards. . . . 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.
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