Palla smiled: “Not a bit––only such cowardice saddens me.... And the days are grey enough....”
“Why do you say that? I think it is a wonderful winter––a beautiful year!”
Palla lifted her brown eyes and let them dwell on the beauty of this clear-skinned, golden-haired girl who had discovered beauty in the aftermath of the world’s great tragedy.
Ilse smiled: “Life is good,” she said. “This world is all to be done over in the right way. We have it all before us, you and I, Palla, and those who love and understand.”
“I am wondering,” said Palla, “who understands us. I’m not discouraged, but––there seems to be so much indifference in the world.”
“Of course. That is our battle to overcome it.”
“Yes. But, dear, there seems to be so much hatred, too, in the world. I thought the war had ended, but everywhere men are still in battle––everywhere men are dying of this fierce hatred that seems to flame up anew across the world; everywhere men fight and slay to gain advantage. None yields, none renounces, none gives. It is as though love were dead on earth.”
“Love is being reborn,” said Ilse cheerfully. “Birth means pain, always–––”
Without warning, a hot flush flooded her face; she averted it as the tea-tray was brought and set on a table before Palla. When her face cooled, she leaned back in her chair, cup in hand, a sort of confused sweetness in her blue eyes.