roused a strange amaze in Lane. "What's the idea, I wonder?" he mused.
But in the end it disgusted him. He reflected that for two swift years
he had been out of the track of events, away from centers of
population. Paris itself had held no attraction for him. Dreamer and
brooder, he had failed to see the material things. But this third
impression troubled him more than the other two and stirred thoughts
he tried to dispel. Returning to the barracks he learned that he and
his friends would be free on the morrow; and long into the night he
rejoiced in the knowledge. Free! The grinding, incomprehensible
Juggernaut and himself were at the parting of the ways. Before he went
to sleep he remembered a forgotten prayer his mother had taught him.
His ordeal was over. What had happened did not matter. The Hell was
past and he must bury memory. Whether or not he had a month or a year
to live it must be lived without memories of his ordeal.

Next day, at the railroad station, even at the moment of departure,
Lane and Blair Maynard had their problem with Red Payson. He did not
want to go to Blair's home.

"But hell, Red, you haven't any home--any place to go," blurted out
Maynard.

So they argued with him, and implored him, and reasoned with him.
Since his discharge from the hospital in France Payson had always been
cool, weary, abstracted, difficult to reach. And here at the last he
grew strangely aloof and stubborn. Every word that bore relation to
his own welfare seemed only to alienate him the more. Lane sensed
this.

"See here, Red," he said, "hasn't it occurred to you that Blair and I