“That,” he blurted out, “was too near for comfort.”

They were silent for a while, then he spoke again gaily: “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 tonight, 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—”