“Oh, I’m perfectly serious!” the pretty pacifist asserted. “You know I never have believed in war. Dora says you’ve come back loving the French. How you can admire a people who—” After a while she paused to take breath and then, with the characteristic lift of her head, “Belgians—the Congo—Algeciras—Morocco— And as for England—Ireland—India—Egypt—” The glib, conventional patter dripped readily from her soft lips.
Lindsay listened, apparently entranced. “Gratia, you’re too pretty for any use!” he asserted indulgently after the next pause in which she dove under the water and reappeared sleek-haired as ever. “I’m not going to argue with you. I’m going to tell you one thing that will be a shock to you, though. The French don’t like war either. And the reason is—now prepare yourself—they know more about the horrors of war in one minute than you will in a thousand years. What are you doing with yourself, these days, Gratia?”
“Oh, running a shop; making smocks, working on batiks, painting, writing vers libre,” Gratia admitted.
“I mean, what do you do with your leisure?” Lindsay demanded, after prolonged meditation.
Gratia ignored this persiflage. “I’m thinking of taking up psycho-analysis,” she confided. “It interests me enormously. I think I ought to do rather well with it.”
“I offer myself as your first victim. Why, you’ll make millions! Every man in New York will want to be psyched. What’s the news, Gratia? I’m dying for gossip.”
Gratia did her best to feed this appetite. Declining dinner, she sipped the tall cool green drink which Lindsay ordered for her. She poured out a flood of talk; but all the time her eyes were flitting from table to table. And often she interrupted her comments on the absent with remarks about the present.
“Yes, Aussie was killed in Italy, flying. Will Arden was wounded in the Argonne. George Jennings died of the flu in Paris—see that big blonde over there, Dave? She’s the Village dressmaker now—Dark Dale is in Russia—can’t get out. Putty Doane was taken prisoner by the Germans at—Oh, see that gang of up-towners—aren’t they snippy and patronizing and silly? But Molly Fearing is our best war sensation. You know what a tiny frightened mouse of a thing she was. She went into the ‘Y.’ She was in the trenches the day of the Armistice—talked with Germans; not prisoners, you understand—but the retreating Germans. Her letters are wonderful. She’s crazy about it over there. I wouldn’t be surprised if she never came back— Oh, Dave, don’t look now; but as soon as you can, get that tall red-headed girl in the corner, Marie Maroo. She does the most marvelous drawings you ever saw. She belongs to that new Vortex School. And then Joel— Oh, there’s Ernestine Phillips and her father. You want to meet her father. He’s a riot. Octogenarian, too! He’s just come from some remote hamlet in Vermont. Ernestine’s showing him a properly expurgated edition of the Village. Hi, Ernestine! He’s a Civil War veteran. Ernest’s crazy to see you, Dave!”
The middle-aged, rather rough-featured woman standing in the doorway turned at Gratia’s call. Her movement revealed the head and shoulders of a tall, gaunt, very old man, a little rough-featured like his daughter; white-haired and white-mustached. She hurried at once to Lindsay’s table.