“I was going to call on you,” Thurley said gravely.
“Come along—I drive the car now. Yes, indeed, I’m qualifying for an ambulance corps. Come on, girls—this is Thurley Precore who’ll boost the subscriptions a lot—you know these girls—Josie, Cora, Hazel—and, Owen, you stay behind and take in the platform and the barrel.”
They piled into the muddied car while Lorraine whizzed them up the hill. Sentimental thoughts about entering Dan’s house, which was to have once been hers, took flight. This new and a trifle mad Lorraine commanded all of Thurley’s attention—and sense of humor.
It was amusing to see the desperate way in which she strove to appear mannish, capable, immune to fears as to bumblebees or punctured tires, shouting out commands to her “crew,” the way the crew shouted back opinions and watched Thurley and her frock in semi-envy, semi-disapproval! They left the car before the door and went inside in breathless fashion. Lorraine walked up the pathway with Thurley.
“How can you bury yourself here,” she asked, “when you could be speaking to crowds in New York? I’m going to get there—I can’t go overseas because of Dan.” She almost resented the interference!
“I was tired—my head was in a whirl, the season seems a nightmare—”
“Oh, not personal work—the cause we women have championed,” she opened the door as she spoke.
“Where is your boy?” Thurley interrupted.
“Oh, the love—I’ve a girl to take care of him, I couldn’t do both my war work and the boy.” Lorraine went upstairs, her absurd little boots tapping importantly.
The young Coldstream Guardesses waited below, playing the Victrola and rummaging for a dish of fudge.