“Certainly,” answered Mildred with a little birdlike laugh, intended to ward off suspicion, “but I should like to know by what authority you propound questions to me.”
“O,” said the clerk, breaking into a laugh, “I am no court of inquisition. I questioned you only by the authority of social etiquette. It is no breach of politeness, I hope, to ask ordinary questions in a common conversation. We sometimes ask questions merely for the sake of vivifying conversation.”
“The authority of social etiquette,” replied Mildred, “is sometimes insolent, and even ordinary questions may in times of public disturbance lead to grave consequences.”
“I had no intention of making so serious a matter of it,” said the clerk. “I asked the question more for the sake of saying something than anything else. Certainly, if you wish to conceal your opinions and sentiments, I’m no inquisitor to try to force you to reveal them. I, however, admire your prudence, since you are a stranger in the city.”
Mildred suddenly laughed outright.
“What do you see in my remark,” inquired the clerk very soberly, “to excite your risibility?”
“I was laughing at your making so serious a matter out of nothing,” answered Mildred. “You speak of my prudence, as if I were some astute diplomatist who had come to Washington to negotiate a treaty of peace, or some other important business. The whole of my prudence consists in not directly answering questions that might lead to the discussion of unpleasant topics.”
“Why is the war such an unpleasant subject?” asked the clerk. “It ought to be agreeable to all loyal people to hear about the destruction of rebels. I wish I could kill some of them myself.”
“If you have such a blood-thirsty disposition,” said Mildred a little contemptuously, “I think you could easily find opportunities to gratify it.”
“You may be sure, if I could stand the exposure which camp life involves, I should have gone out at the first tap of the drum. Besides, I have a family.”