"Have you thought of enlisting?" she asked abruptly, without glancing at him.
"Yes," he said, "I've ventured that far. It's perfectly safe to think about it. You have no idea, Mrs. Paige, what warlike sentiments I cautiously entertain in my office chair."
She turned nervously, with a sunny glint of gold hair and fluttering ribbons:
"Are you never perfectly serious, Mr. Berkley? Even at such a moment as this?"
"Always," he insisted. "I was only philosophising upon these scenes of inexpensive patriotism which fill even the most urbane and peaceful among us full of truculence. . . . I recently saw my tailor wearing a sword, attired in the made-to-measure panoply of battle."
"Did that strike you as humorous?"
"No, indeed; it fitted; I am only afraid he may find a soldier's grave before I can settle our sartorial accounts."
There was a levity to his pleasantries which sounded discordant to her amid the solemnly thrilling circumstances impending. For the flower of the city's soldiery was going forth to battle—a thousand gay, thoughtless young fellows summoned from ledger, office, and counting-house; and all about her a million of their neighbours had gathered to see them go.
"Applause makes patriots. Why should I enlist when merely by cheering others I can stand here and create heroes in battalions?"
"I think," she said, "that there was once another scoffer who remained to pray."