“Yes.... What is there for me to do but to accept things as they are?”
“You mean, ‘accept me as I am!’ Oh, Jim, it’s so dear of you. And you know well enough that I care for no other man as I do for you–––”
The waitress with the tea-tray cut short that sort of 188 conversation. Palla’s appetite was a healthy one. She unpinned her hat and flung it on the piano. Then she nestled down sideways on the sofa, one leg tucked under the other knee, her hair in enough disorder to worry any other girl––and began to tuck away tea and cakes. Sometimes, in animated conversation, she gesticulated with a buttered bun––once she waved her cup to emphasise her point:
“The main idea, of course, is to teach the eternal law of Love and Service,” she explained. “But, Jim, I have become recently, and in a measure, militant.”
“You’re going to love the unwashed with a club?”
“You very impudent boy! We’re going to combat this new and terrible menace––this sinister flood that threatens the world––the crimson tide of anarchy!”
“Good work, darling! I enlist for a machine gun uni–––”
“Listen! The battle is to be entirely verbal. Our Combat Club No. 1, the first to be established––is open to anybody and everybody. All are at liberty to enter into the discussions. We who believe in the Law of Love and Service shall have our say every evening that the club is open–––”
“The Reds may come and take a crack at you.”
“The Reds are welcome. We wish to face them across the rostrum, not across a barricade!”