She came in upon them like a whirlwind, as they sat at the dinner table, and at the sight of their familiar faces, she gave a sort of sob of relief, and flung herself into a chair. They looked at her, pulling off her torn old gloves, and they had, both of them, an illusion that it was entirely her house, her home, that they had nothing to say in it.
Her face was pale and worn, and bright with hysterical excitement. It didn’t occur to her that she was expected to explain her presence; she was preoccupied with some thought of her own. Suddenly she looked up, at Frances.
“He’s gone!” she cried. “He would go. Into the army. I thought——” she broke into open sobbing, “I thought ... he was ... too thin ... but he left me a note ... to say they’ve taken him. Oh, poor old Lionel! Poor old darling!”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s so terribly pitiful!” she went on. “I never ... in all my life.... Oh, his arms are like little sticks....”
She turned fiercely on Mr. Petersen.
“The idea of his being in the army, while you sit at home, a big, hearty thing like you!” she cried, passionately. It was the same spirit which led so many women to press recruiting.
Mr. Petersen’s face turned scarlet. He cleared his throat, and answered at last, in his slow way:
“Of course you don’t! You never would. You haven’t any spirit in you. You just want to sit at home and——”