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Show Holds 'At Home' V-' ' x . ... .. ti -" I - J l r eaannnnnBsBooaBavaBBnBBan9. ' Mrs. R. T. Jelllton, who, with Dr. Jellison, entertained at a preholiday cocktail party Tuesday Tues-day at their delightful homa, 134fr ThiroLavaniia, NO HEROTHIS Telegram Fiction l J niilU 1 lllO By Warwick Deepig IConttnued from Preceding Pag,) Gabrielle is temperamental and that she worries over the war and her Louis. I say that the war has been s terrible ordeal for France, but now th A the Americans are arriving, arriv-ing, the Bodies will never come to Le Mesnil. I am conscious of wanting want-ing to discover the name of La Petite and whether she, too. is fiancee. "Has your son been wounded, madame?" "Yes, at Verdun. And Gabrielle'a Louis was wounded on the Chemin des Dames. He is in the artillery. And has monsieur been wounded?" Ashamed to Say No I have to aay no, and I feel rather ashamed of itl "That is a blessing. Monsieur Is married, I believe?' So they have been looking at my photos. "Yes, I have a wife and a small daughter in England." Madame Mad-ame beams upon me. She appears to be regarding me with more confidence. con-fidence. "It is very worrying for the women, wo-men, monsieur. I am glad in a way that Pauline has no fiance yet." So that is her name. A tragedy! I come back from the chateau after tea to write letters home and find Madame and La Petite in the parlor kitchen. There is a bowl of water on the table and one of La Petite's hands is being held over it and Madame is sponging spong-ing a finger with a wad of wool. What has happened? La Petite has cut her finger while attempting to aharpen a sickle. It is s nasty gash and I become professional. Ij hold her wrist gently and examine the cut. I say that this is my sffair and that I will go and procure proper dressings and bind up her finger. I walk back to the chateau !and get what I require. When I return re-turn La Petite is sitting in a chair, still holding her hand over the' basin. She looks intensely pale. 1' ask her if she feels faint. I ".No. monsieur." I ask her if I am hurting her- Her' eyes float up to mine. "No. monsieur." mon-sieur." j Madame remarks -that I ant very' skillful and that I must have succored suc-cored many poor wounded. I aay Jthat it is my job and that so far as .1 can see it is the only merciful 'business in this ghsstly war. Madame Mad-ame nods her head and asks me whether doctors have to dress the wounded under shell fire. I ssy yes As I sm tying off the bandage around La 'Petite s wrist I am aware of her eyes fixed upon something. some-thing. She la looking at the piece of ribbon on my tunic. It is Madame who asks the question: ques-tion: "Monsieur has a decoration?" "Yes." "Like our Croix de Guerre?" "We call it the Military Cross. "Given for some brave act, monsieur?" mon-sieur?" My Croix da Guerre I smile at Madame. "Yes. because I was too frightened to run swsy." I am aware of La Petite's eyes looking up st me. There is an enigmatic enig-matic something In them, a kind of profound and Intent questioning of my secret self and of some quality qual-ity in our mutual aelf-conscious-ness. I stare into her eyes for a moment and then give her hand a pat and turn sway. Gabrielle is standing In the doorway door-way with a crooked finger on her lip. watching us with a kind of tragic curioeity. A little shiver seems to go through me. Why is that dark and passionate young woman looking at us so strangely? My God! Am I in love with this child? Yes, I know now that I sm But I am in love with her as one falls in love with oeautiful things, the spring, the singing of birds, the spple blossoms, trees in young leaf. It is all part of this exquisite spring, this sweet season after a winter of mud and of fear and of squalor. It is like drinking wine and not expecting ex-pecting to be warmed by it. I go and look at my wife's photo and I know that I love both these women, if a little diffenently. My love for Mary la part and parcel of my life, like the sod out of which all one's good urges grow, and somehow this spring msdness makes me feel more tender toward her. Would she understand? Perhaps? Per-haps? We men have been so starved of all life's more beautiful and gentle gen-tle sausfactioha that this spring can.be a sort of Intoxication. I (To Be Continued.) J (Copyright, 1837, for The Telegram) i a , |