CHAPTER XII
Not Peace But War
Later that same evening the girls were seated in their living room at the farmhouse. It was almost bed time, so heavy curtains had been drawn across their small windows, shutting out all possible vision of the outside world.
But wearing their four new kimonos the girls were grouped in characteristic attitudes about a small fireplace on the right side of the room.
Suddenly, after a warm afternoon, a November rain had fallen, bringing with it cold and dampness. So, although a fire in France is regarded as a great luxury, the American girls felt compelled to have one. It was not of the generous kind to which they were accustomed at home, but was built of carefully hoarded sticks and pine cones old François had brought them from time to time as valuable gifts. Therefore, the girls were huddled closer to the fire and to one another than under ordinary circumstances.
Just at present, however, there was no talking going on, which was most unusual, since Nona and Barbara were especially addicted to this feminine habit, while neither Eugenia nor Mildred were extraordinarily silent. However, at the moment both Mildred and Nona were writing letters, while Barbara was reading a queer, old-fashioned book she had discovered stored away in the attic of their little farmhouse. It was, of course, written in French, and she was supposed to be improving her vocabulary. But the French was so peculiar that now and then she was forced to stop to consult a dictionary.
Eugenia was also reading, although her literature was of a more serious character. She was studying a series of reports the Red Cross societies of Europe had recently issued. The papers offered important information and advice to the Red Cross nurses, and Eugenia was too deeply interested in her profession to neglect any chance for improvement.
She and Mildred were at a small table by the fire with the lamp between them, while Nona and Barbara were mounted upon sofa cushions, which they had placed on the bare floor.
By and by Barbara glanced up at the alarm clock on the mantelpiece. It was standing side by side with a tall French clock of silver gilt that must once have been a bridal offering. However, the French clock had these long years been silent, while tonight the plebeian American timepiece ticked resolutely on.
Seeing the hour, Barbara yawned, closed her book and then, clasping her hands over her knees, began rocking slowly back and forth.
No one at first paid the least attention to her.