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But in his soul he was worried. There was a change in Edith O’Hara. Even her voice had altered. It was not only her manner to him. That was marked enough, but he only shrugged his shoulders over it. Time enough for that when the production was on.

He had engaged a hoyden, and she was by way of becoming a lady. During the first week or so he had hoped that it was only the strangeness of her surroundings. He had been shrewd enough to lay some of it, however, to Cecil’s influence.

“When your soldier boy gets out of the way,” he sneered one day in the wings, “perhaps you’ll get down to earth and put some life in your work.”

But to his dismay she grew steadily worse. Her dancing was delicate, accurate, even graceful, but the thing the British public likes to think typically American, a sort of breezy swagger, was gone. To bill her in her present state as the Madcap American would be sheer folly.

Ten days before the opening he cabled for another girl to take her place.

He did not tell her. Better to let her work on, he decided. A German submarine might sink the ship on which the other girl was coming, and then where would they be?

Up to the last, however, he had hopes of Edith. Not that he cared to save her. But he hated to acknowledge a failure. He disliked to disavow his own judgment.

He made a final effort with her, took her one day to luncheon at Simpson’s, and in one of the pewlike compartments, over mutton and caper sauce, he tried to “talk a little life into her.”

“What the devil has come over you?” he demanded savagely. “You were larky enough over in New York. There are any number of girls in London who can do what you are doing now, and do it better.”

“I’m doing just what I did in New York.”

“The hell you are! I could do what you’re doing with a jointed doll and some wires. Now see here, Edith,” he said, “either you put some go into the thing, or you go. That’s flat.”

Her eyes filled.

“I–maybe I’m worried,” she said. “Ever since I found out that I’ve signed up, with no arrangement about sending me back, it’s been on my mind.”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

“But if they put some one on in my place?”

“You needn’t worry about that either. I’ll look after you. You know that. If I hadn’t been crazy about you I’d have let you go a week ago. You know that too.”

She knew the tone, knew instantly where she stood. Knew, too, that she would not play the first night in London. She went rather white, but she faced him coolly.

“Don’t look like that,” he said. “I’m only telling you that if you need a friend I’ll be there.”

It was two days before the opening, however, when the blow fell. She had not been sleeping, partly from anxiety about herself, partly about the boy. Every paper she picked up was full of the horrors of war. There were columns filled with the names of those who had fallen. Somehow even his uniform had never closely connected the boy with death in her mind. He seemed so young.

She had had a feeling that his very youth would keep him from danger. War to her was a faintly conceived struggle between men, and he was a boy.

But here were boys who had died, boys at nineteen. And the lists of missing startled her. One morning she read in the personal column a query, asking if any one could give the details of the death of a young subaltern. She cried over that. In all her care-free life never before had she wept over the griefs of others.

Cecil had sent her his photograph taken in his uniform. Because he had had it taken to give her he had gazed directly into the eye of the camera. When she looked at it it returned her glance. She took to looking at it a great deal.