"I’ll stay home," said Angelica.
But Polly lingered, inexcusably, to talk about Vincent—how Vincent and she went to this meeting, how Vincent and she said this, how Vincent and she thought that. They both knew that this was nothing more or less than crowing. Polly had vanquished Angelica. She had got him back!
Of course she had no actual information as to his philandering with her companion, but she had observed, she had put two and two together. She had never suspected actual wrongdoing; she didn’t imagine, somehow, that there was anything in Angelica’s conduct to blame. She simply thought that Vincent had too much admired this lovely young thing, and that Angelica had had her head turned by the flattery of his attention. She felt justified in pressing her advantage.
Angelica endured it stoically. She wouldn’t show even any interest. She listened to this talk of Vincent with rude inattention, and even went so far as to yawn.
"He is wonderful," said Polly. "He’s organized a sort of club—the Friends of France—men that can’t go themselves, but pledge themselves to get recruits. He says the war has stirred his faith. I’m very glad. He’s doing wonderful work!"
"Why don’t he enlist, like Mr. Eddie?"
"My dear, he’d never serve under the British flag. Eddie’s in the Canadian service. Vincent’s Irish, you see."
"Well, isn’t Mr. Eddie the same as he?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so; but he’s a different sort of Irishman."
"Well, why don’t he serve under the French flag, then, if he’s so fond of it?"