“Then the French uniform is so charming,” Gratia put in, consciously sarcastic.
Lindsay slapped her slim wrist indulgently and continued to answer Mr. Phillips’s questions. Ernestine listened, the look of trouble growing in her serene eyes. Gratia listened, diving under water after her shocked exclamations and reappearing glistening.
“Oh, there’s Matty Packington!” Gratia broke in. “You haven’t met Matty yet, Dave. Hi, Matty! You must know Matty. She’s a sketch. She’s one of those people who say the things other people only dare think. You won’t believe her.” She rattled one of her staccato explanations; “society girl—first a slumming tour through the Village—perfectly crazy about it—studio in McDougal Alley—yeowoman—becoming uniform—Rolls-Royce—salutes—”
Matty Packington approached the table with a composed flutter. The two men arose. Gratia met her halfway; performed the introductions. In a minute the conversation was out of everybody’s hands and in Miss Packington’s. As Gratia prophesied, Lindsay found it difficult to believe her. She started at an extraordinary speed and she maintained it without break.
“Oh, Mr. Lindsay, aren’t you heartbroken now that it is all over? You must tell me all about your experiences sometime. It must have been too thrilling for words. But don’t you think—don’t you think—they stopped the war too soon? If I were Foch I wouldn’t have been satisfied until I’d occupied all Germany, devastated just as much territory as those beasts devastated in France, and executed all those monsters who cut off the Belgian babies’ hands. Don’t you think so?”
Lindsay contemplated the lady who put this interesting question to him. She was fair and fairy-like; a little, light-shot golden blonde; all slim lines and opalescent colors. Her hair fluttered like whirled light from under her piquantly cocked military cap. The stress of her emotion added for the instant to the bigness and blueness of her eyes.
“Well, for myself,” he remarked finally, “I can do with a little peace for a while. And then to carry out your wishes, Miss Packington, Foch would have had to sacrifice a quarter of a million more Allied soldiers. But I sometimes think the men at the front were a bit thoughtless of the entertainment of the civilians. Somehow we did get it into our heads that we ought to close this war up as soon as possible. Another time perhaps we’d know better.”
Miss Packington received this characteristically; that is to say, she did not receive it at all. For by the time Lindsay had begun his last sentence, she had embarked on a monologue directed this time to Gratia. The talk flew back and forth, grew general; grew concrete; grew abstract; grew personal. It bubbled up into monologues from Gratia and Matty. It thinned down to questions from Ernestine and Mr. Phillips. Drinks came; were followed by other drinks. All about them, tables emptied and filled, uniforms predominating; and all to the accompaniment of chatter; gay mirth; drifting smoke-films and refilled glasses. Latecomers stopped to shake hands with Lindsay, to join the party for a drink; to smoke a cigarette; floated away to other parties. But the nucleus of their party remained the same.
David answered with patience all questions, stopped patiently halfway through his own answer to reply to other questions. At about midnight he rose abruptly. He had just brought to the end a careful and succinct statement in which he declared that he had seen no Belgian children with their hands cut off; no crucified Canadians.
“Folks,” he addressed the company genially, “I’m going to admit to you I’m tired.” Inwardly he added, “I won’t indicate which ones of you make me the most tired; but almost all of you give me an awful pain.” He added aloud, “It’s the hay for me this instant. Good-night!”