Mrs. Lindsay smiled, that enigmatic smile, wistful and ironic. “It is undue humility on your part, believe me. But shan’t we get back to the matter in hand? Monsieur De Nemours, what is your opinion?”
“I think there is much in Mr. O’Hara’s suggestion that the Government should not be over-precipitate,” replied De Nemours pleasantly. He was horribly bored; politics, unless they concerned France, bored him almost beyond endurance, but his ennui was somewhat alleviated by the fact that a very pretty woman was asking him a question. “If silence were maintained for a few weeks, it might well be——”
O’Hara was listening—fiercely. He was sure that he could smell violets somewhere; why didn’t the woman take her hands off the table? They lay there, white and fragile and helpless, like broken flowers. Why didn’t she wear a wedding ring? Why—he jerked his tired mind back savagely to De Nemours’ easy, fluent voice, his tired eyes to the worn but amiable mask that the Frenchman substituted for a face. Why didn’t he stop talking?
“We, in France, have been learning tolerance to God as well as to man,” he was saying. “Possibly before the war we have been drastic, but the truly remarkable revival——”
France again! France and Italy and Oregon—on and on and on—the clock on the mantel clicked away the minutes ruthlessly, the precious minutes that belonged to a dying world. It was striking eleven when Mrs. Lindsay rose.
“Then that’s cleared up, I think,” she said. “We begin the regular routine to-morrow morning, don’t we? Half-past nine? And here?”
“The house has been placed at my disposal,” replied O’Hara formally. “I have placed it at the Committee’s. It has proved a convenient arrangement.”
“Are the night sessions usual?” she asked.
“Usual? I don’t know.” He looked at her wearily; how could any one emerge from that harrowing bickering and manœuvering so fresh and untouched and shining? “We have them when it seems necessary—how often should you say, De Nemours?”
“Never mind.” The cool fingers were touching his; she was going. “I will keep my evenings free, too—I was simply wondering what to do about some invitations. But nothing else counts, of course, does it? Do get a good rest; you look so tired. Good-night.” She smiled, nodded the golden head graciously, and was gone.