“What is it?”
“Mischief.”
They laughed. Marya, particularly, was intensely amused. She was extremely fetching in her bicorne toque and narrow gown of light turquoise, and her golden beaver scarf and muff.
“Mischief,” she repeated. “I should say not. There seems to be already sufficient mischief loose in the world, with the red tide rising everywhere––in Russia, in Germany, Austria, Italy, England––yes, and here also the crimson tide of Bolshevism begins to move.... Tell me; you are coming to the club to-morrow evening, I hope.”
“No.”
“Oh. Why?”
“No,” he repeated, almost sullenly. “I’ve had enough of queerness for a while–––”
“Jim! Do you dare include me?”
He had to laugh at her pretence of fury: “No, Marya, you’re just a pretty mischief-maker, I suppose–––”
“Then what do you mean by ‘queerness’? Don’t you think it’s sensible to combat Bolshevism and fight 255 it with argument and debate on its own selected camping ground? Don’t you think it is high time somebody faced this crimson tide––that somebody started to build a dyke against this threatened inundation?”