Polly made polite inquiries about Angelica’s mother, and then they had finished with her, and returned to their own absorbing preoccupation—the war.
In this one short week they had plunged into the war with fervour, led by Vincent. They cared for nothing else. Mrs. Russell had organized a tennis tournament for Stricken Belgium; her specialty was getting up entertainments and recounting atrocities of a certain sort. Ordinarily there were all sorts of fascinating subjects which one couldn’t discuss, all sorts of the most interesting semi-medical details which were unhappily tabu; but now, provided one told of it as done by a German, one might say anything. Nothing was too degenerate, too shocking.
Polly spent much of her time in the Red Cross workrooms, rolling bandages. She could do this with all her heart, without betraying a secret pity she felt for Germany. She had lived there so long, and had been so happy in her student days. She was convinced that the Germans were very wicked, and that it was necessary to conquer them, but all the same she was sorry for them; and she persisted in her firm hope that her own country would never enter the war.
"Yes," she said, "I do sympathize with the Allies. I hope they’ll win. I’m glad and willing to help them; but I’d rather see them lose than to see any of our own boys killed!"
She kept to herself the horror she felt at the idea of some nice American boy killing one of those magnificent, insolent German officers she had always so admired.
Moreover, she didn’t like the English. She had all the resentment, all the prejudices, of her little Ohio town against that lordly race. It wasn’t Vincent’s fantastic Irish hate; it wasn’t really hate at all, simply a stubborn dislike. She found a compromise, as he did, by a preposterous worship of all things French. They were apparently fighting the war alone against overwhelming numbers of Germans, somewhat hindered by a small and very stupid British army.
Vincent gave a sort of inspired dissertation upon the French, which deeply moved his family but failed to move Angelica. She was too stunned by this change of atmosphere. She was of no significance now; she wasn’t useful, she wasn’t interesting. No one—not even Vincent—gave her another glance; and Eddie, her steadfast friend, wasn’t there.
But the greatest blow of all was Vincent’s attitude toward Polly, his friendly deference, their air of complete harmony. She watched them, saw them exchange smiles and glances, listened to their familiar talk.
He left directly the meal was finished, and Polly went up-stairs to put on her hat.
"I’m going to work all morning," she said. "You can come with me and roll bandages, or, if you’d rather, you can stay at home and trim that hat for me."