“Does he really beat her? I don't quite believe that, Mademoiselle.”
“It is not a subject for a young girl.”
“Because really,” Lily went on, “there is something awfully big about a woman who will stick to one man like that. I am quite sure I would bite a man who struck me, but—suppose I loved him terribly—” her voice trailed off. “You see, dear, I have seen a lot of brutality lately. An army camp isn't a Sunday school picnic. And I like strong men, even if they are brutal sometimes.”
Mademoiselle carefully cut a thread.
“This—you were speaking to Ellen of a young man. Is he a—what you term brutal?”
Suddenly Lily laughed.
“You poor dear!” she said. “And mother, too, of course! You're afraid I'm in love with Willy Cameron. Don't you know that if I were, I'd probably never even mention his name?”
“But is he brutal?” persisted Mademoiselle.
“I'll tell you about him. He is a thin, blond young man, tall and a bit lame. He has curly hair, and he puts pomade on it to take the curl out. He is frightfully sensitive about not getting in the army, and he is perfectly sweet and kind, and as brutal as a June breeze. You'd better tell mother. And you can tell her he isn't in love with me, or I with him. You see, I represent what he would call the monied aristocracy of America, and he has the most fearful ideas about us.”
“An anarchist, then?” asked. Mademoiselle, extremely comforted.