“And she sends her love,” she said to the V. A. D. “She would not have you on any account miss this party. She is desperately grieved that she cannot accept my invitation to join us. Of course, I knew the old dear couldn't. And we are to meet her afterwards.”
The little lunch party was, on the whole, a success. To the conversation Paula contributed the larger part, Barry doing his best to second her. But in spite of his heroic efforts, his mind would escape him, far away to the sunny Athabasca plains, and the gleaming river and the smooth slipping canoe, and then with swift transition to the little British plot in the cemetery at Boulogne.
At such times, Paula, reading his face, would momentarily falter in her gay talk, only to begin again with renewed vivacity. On one topic, however, she had no difficulty in holding Barry's attention. It was when she told of the organising and despatching of the American Red Cross units to France, and more especially of her own unit, organised and financed by her father.
“I am awfully sorry he is not here to-day. He would have loved to have seen you again, Barry.”
“And I to have seen him,” said Barry. “He is a big man, and it is fine of him to do this thing. It's just like the big, generous-hearted Americans—they are so unstinted in their sympathies, and they back them up for all they are worth.”
“And how efficient they are,” added the V. A. D. in warm admiration. “This hospital, you know,” turning to Barry, “is perfectly wonderful. Its equipment! Its appliances! I have often heard our O. C. speak in the most rapturous envy of the Etaples American Red Cross unit.”
“And why should not it be?” cried Paula. “It's a question of money after all. We are not at war. We put in a few little hospitals here in France. We have more money thrown at us than we can use. And you talk about efficiency,” she added, turning to the V. A. D. “Good Lord! My pater has just come back from London, where he was rubbering around with lords and dukes and things in a disgustingly un-American way I told him, and now he raves from morning until night over the efficiency of the British. He's been allowed to see some of their munition works, you know. I simply had to declaim the American Declaration of Independence to him three times a day to revive his drooping Democratic sentiments, and I had to sew Old Glory on to his pajamas so that he might dream proper American dreams. No, to tell you the truth,” here Paula's voice took a deeper note, “every last American of us here in France is hot with humiliation and rage at his country's attitude,—monkeying with those baby-killing, woman-raping devils.”
As she ended, her voice shook with passion, her cheeks were pale, and in her eyes shone two bright tears. Impulsively the V. A. D. rose from her place, ran around to Paula, and putting her arm around her neck, said:
“Oh, I do thank you, and I love you for your words,” while Barry stood at attention, as if in the presence of his superior officer. “I salute you,” he said with grave earnestness. “You worthily represent your brave and generous people.”
“Oh, darn it all!” cried Paula, brushing away her tears. “I'm a fool, but you don't know how we Americans feel—real Americans, I mean, not the yellow hyphenated breed.”