And Patsy's eyes--he softened and trembled under them. They were so gentle and half-pitying. What in the world could it mean? He knew well enough that back in that active little brain something was revolving--something about him. But never in his life would he have figured out that Patsy, as she sat quietly discussing Sabinsport factories, was building a romance of which he was the broken-hearted villain and a fair-haired nurse in France the broken-hearted heroine.
After dinner, when they had gathered in the parson's big library for a talk, Patsy had another surprise, for now Ralph was almost ostentatious in the interest he showed in Dick's war library--a collection which would have been remarkable anywhere, but which was particularly noticeable here, five hundred miles from the sea. It included files of _Vorwaerts_, of _Le Temps_, _Le Matin_, London _Times_, of political weeklies of many countries, besides scores and scores of pamphlets and books. Again and again in the past two years, Dick had urged his friend to use his library. "You have no right as a citizen of a country which is getting deeper and deeper into this thing not to follow the literature of the war," he stormed, but Ralph had hardened his judgment--he "didn't believe in war."
Now, however, committed to an acceptance which carried with it the obligation to know and to judge, he had turned resolutely to reading. Patsy could scarcely credit her eyes and ears when she saw him pick up book after book--criticize, ask Dick's opinion, borrow, say, "I've finished this"--"I want to read that." Where was the pugnacious, intolerant, scoffing Ralph she had fought with for two years? There could be no fighting with this man. He was too meek a seeker after knowledge, too hesitant, and apologetic in expressing opinions. Certainly something had happened to him.
Two equally puzzled young people went home that night to dream and wonder. For many weeks they continued to dream and wonder. Ralph's reserve, tolerance, meekness, studiousness continued. He hadn't found himself. He was so made that as long as his faith in himself wavered, as he had no fighting objective, he could not press his interest in Patsy. She seemed as inaccessible as a new faith. And Patsy, still romancing over the girl he had cruelly driven from him because of her noble devotion to the sufferers overseas, watched his changed attitude with anxiety and hope.