They dined in a little restaurant near the Madeleine. With the table between them they scanned each other's faces for the traces left by nearly two years of separation. Except that she was tired Tom found little change in her. Always lacking in temporary, girlish prettiness, her distinction of line and poise was that which the years affect but slowly, and experience enhances. He could only say of her that she was less the young girl he had last seen in Boston, and more the woman of the world who, having seen the things that happen as they happen most brutally, has grown a little heartsick, and more than a little weary.
"It's all so futile, Tom. It's such waste. It should never have been asked of the people of the world."
His lips had the dim disillusioned smile which had taken the place of the radiance of even a year or two earlier.
"What about the war to end war? What about making the world safe for democracy?"
She put up a hand in protest. "Oh, don't! I hate that clap-trap. The salt which was good enough to put on birds' tails is sickening when you see the poor creatures lying with their necks wrung. Oh, Tom, what can we do about it if we ever get home?"
"Do about what?"
"About the whole thing, about this poor pitiful, pitiable human race that's got itself into such an awful mess?"
"The human race is a pretty big problem to handle."
"Yes, but you don't think the bigness ought to stop us, do you?"