“Oh, that dirty war.”
We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: “Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!”
“It’s a friend calling me,” I explained, and went out.
There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know.
“You’re coming to the dance, aren’t you?” Braddocks asked.
“What dance?”
“Why, the dancings. Don’t you know we’ve revived them?” Mrs. Braddocks put in.
“You must come, Jake. We’re all going,” Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile.
“Of course, he’s coming,” Braddocks said. “Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes.”
“Right.”