"Isn't it a little bit mad, your idea?"
"Mad? Of course he is," said Bakkus. "Much reading in military text-books has made him mad. A considerably less interesting fellow than Andrew, who, after all, has a modicum of brains, one Don Quixote, achieved immortality by proceeding along the same lunatic lines."
Then Elodie flashed out. She understood nothing of the allusion, but she suspected a sneer.
"If I were a man I should fight for France. If Andre thinks it is his duty to fight for England, it may be mad, but it is fine, all the same. Yesterday, in the street, I sang the Marseillaise with the rest. 'Amour sacré de la Patrie.' Eh bien! There are other countries besides France. Do you deny that the amour sacré exists for the Englishman?"
Andrew rose and gravely took Elodie's face in his delicate hands and kissed her.
"I never did you the wrong, my dear, of thinking you would feel otherwise."
"Neither did I, my good Elodie," said Bakkus, hurriedly opportunist. "If I have had one ambition in my life it is to sun myself in the vicarious glamour of a hero."
The corsets rolled off Elodie's lap as she turned swiftly.
"You really think André if he enlists in the English Army will be a hero?"
"Without doubt," replied Bakkus.