From the Housetops

by George Barr McCutcheon

"My dear, you are picking up a lot of expressions from Lutie."

The early evenings at Anne's place in the country were spent solely in discussions of the great war. There was no other topic. The whole of the civilised world was talking of the stupendous conflict that had burst upon it like a crash out of a clear sky. George came home loaded down with the latest extras and all of the regular editions of the afternoon papers.

"By gemini," he was in the habit of saying, "it's a lucky thing for those Germans that Lutie got me to reenlist with her a year ago. I'd be on my way over there by this time, looking for real work. Gee, Anne, that's one thing I could do as well as anybody. I'm big enough to stop a lot of bullets. We'll never see another scrap like this. It's just my luck to be happily married when it bursts out, too."

"I am sure you would have gone," said Lutie serenely. "I'm glad I captured you in time. It saves the Germans an awful lot of work."

The smashing of Belgium, the dash of the great German army toward Paris, the threatened disaster to the gay capital, the sickening conviction that nothing could check the tide of guns and men,—all these things bore down upon them with a weight that seemed unbearable. And then came the battle of the Marne! Von Kluck's name was on the lips of every man, woman and child in the United States of America. Would they crush him? Was Paris safe? What was the matter with England? And then, the personal element came into the situation for Anne and her kind: the names of the officers who had fallen, snuffed out in Belgium and France. Nearly every day brought out the name of some one she had known, a few of them quite well. There were the gallant young Belgians who had come over for the horse-shows, and the polo-players she had known in England, and the gay young noblemen,—their names brought the war nearer home and sickened her.

As time went on the horrors of the great conflict were deprived, through incessant repetition, of the force to shock a world now accustomed to the daily slaughter of thousands. Humanity had got used to war. War was no longer a novelty. People read of great battles in which unprecedented numbers of men were slain, and wondered how much of truth was in the reports. War no longer horrified the distant on-looker. The sufferings of the Belgians were of greater interest to the people of America than the sufferings of the poor devils in the trenches or on the battle lines. A vast wave of sympathy was sweeping the land and purses were touched as never before. War was on parade. The world turned out en masse to see the spectacle. The heart of every good American was touched by what he saw, and the hand of every man was held out to stricken Belgium, nor was any hand empty. Belgium presented the grewsome spectacle, and the world paid well for the view it was having.

It was late in November when Anne and the others came down to the city, and by that time the full strength of the movement to help the sufferers had been reached. People were fighting for the Belgians, but with their hearts instead of their hands. The stupendous wave of sympathy was at its height. It rolled across the land and then across the sea. People were swept along by its mighty rush. Anne Thorpe was caught up in the maelstrom of human energy.

Something fine in her nature, however, caused Anne to shrink from public benefactions. She realised that a world that was charitable to the Belgians was not so apt to be charitable toward her. While she did not contribute anonymously to the fund, she let it be distinctly understood that her name was not to be published in any of the lists of donors, except in a single instance when she gave a thousand-dollars. That much, at least, would be expected of her and she took some comfort in the belief that the world would not charge her with self-exploitation on the money she had received from Templeton Thorpe. Other gifts and contributions were never mentioned in the press by the committees in charge. She gave liberally, not only to the sufferers on the other side of the Atlantic but to the poor of New York, and she steadfastly declined to serve on any of the relief committees.

Never until now had she appreciated how thin-skinned she was. It is not to be inferred that she shut herself up and affected a life of seclusion. As a matter of fact, she went out a great deal, but invariably among friends and to small, intimate affairs.

Not once in the months that followed the scene in Lutie's sitting-room did she encounter Braden Thorpe. She heard of him frequently. He was very busy. He went nowhere except where duty called. There was not a moment in her days, however, when her thoughts were not for him. Her eyes were always searching the throngs on Fifth Avenue in quest of his figure; in restaurants she looked eagerly over the crowded tables in the hope that she might see actually the face that was always before her, night and day. Be it said to her credit, she resolutely abstained from carrying her quest into quarters where she might be certain of seeing him, of meeting him, of receiving recognition from him. She avoided the neighbourhood in which his offices were located, she shunned the streets which he would most certainly traverse. While she longed for him, craved him with all the hunger of a starved soul, she was content to wait. He loved her. She thrived on the joy of knowing this to be true. He might never come to her, but she knew that it would never be possible for her to go to him unless he called her to him.