For a while they continued to walk up and down in silence.
Finally Estridge said: “There was a girl for you!”
“Palla Dumont!” nodded Shotwell, still too astonished to talk.
“No, the other.... An amazing girl.... Nearly six feet; physically perfect;––what the human girl ought to be and seldom is;––symmetrical, flawless, healthy––a super-girl ... like some young daughter of the northern gods!... Ilse Westgard.”
“One of those women soldiers, you say?” inquired Shotwell, mildly curious.
“Yes. There were all kinds of women in that Death Battalion. We saw them,––your friend Palla Dumont and I,––saw them halted and standing at ease in a birch wood; saw them marching into fire.... And there were all sorts of women, Jim; peasant, bourgeoise and aristocrat;––there were dressmakers, telephone operators, servant-girls, students, Red Cross nurses, actresses from the Marinsky, Jewesses from the Pale, sisters of the Yellow Ticket, Japanese girls, Chinese, Cossack, English, Finnish, French.... And they went over the top cheering for Russia!... They went over to shame the army which had begun to run from the hun.... Pretty fine, wasn’t it?”
“Fine!”
“You bet!... After this war––after what women have done the world over––I wonder whether 76 there are any asses left who desire to restrict woman to a ‘sphere’?... I’d like to see Ilse Westgard again,” he added absently.
“Was she a peasant girl?”
“No. A daughter of well-to-do people. Quite the better sort, I should say. And she was more thoroughly educated than the average girl of our own sort.... A brave and cheerful soldier in the Battalion of Death.... Ilse Westgard.... Amazing, isn’t it?”