“Tell me, Jane,” said Ethel, as they set off down the street, “am I awake? Is that little Kellerman, the greasy little Jew whom we used to think such a beast?”
“Isn't he splendid?” said Jane. “Poor little Kellerman! You know, Ethel, he had not one girl friend in college? I am sorry now we were not better to him.”
The streets were full of people walking hurriedly or gathered here and there in groups, all with grave, solemn faces. In front of The Times office a huge concourse stood before the bulletin boards reading the latest despatches. These were ominous enough: “The Germans Still Battering Liege Forts—Kaiser's Army Nearing Brussels—Four Millions of Men Marching on France—Russia Hastening Her Mobilisation—Kitchener Calls for One Hundred Thousand Men—Canada Will Send Expeditionary Force of Twenty-five Thousand Men—Camp at Valcartier Nearly Ready—Parliament Assembles Thursday.” Men read the bulletins and talked quietly to each other. They had not yet reached clearness in their thinking as to how this dread thing had fallen upon their country so far from the storm centre, so remote in all vital relations. There was no cheering—the cheering days came later—no ebullient emotion, but the tightening of lip and jaw in their stern, set faces was a sufficient index of the tensity of feeling. Canadians were thinking things out, thinking keenly and swiftly, for in the atmosphere and actuality of war mental processes are carried on at high pressure.
As the girls stood at the corner of Portage Avenue and Main waiting for a crossing, an auto held up in the traffic drew close to their side.
“Hello, Ethel! Won't you get in?” said a voice at their ear.
“Hello, Lloyd! Hello, Helen!” cried Ethel. “We will, most certainly. Are you joying, or what?”
“Both,” said Lloyd Rushbrooke, who was at the wheel. “Helen wanted to see the soldiers. She is interested in the Ninetieth but he wasn't there and I am just taking her about.”
“We saw the Ninetieth and the Kilties too,” said Ethel. “Oh, they are fine! Oh, Helen, whom do you think we saw in the Ninetieth? You will never guess—Heinrich Kellerman.”
“Good Lord! That greasy little Sheeney?” exclaimed Rushbrooke.
“Look out, Lloyd. He's Jane's friend,” said Ethel.