“Why, the greatest conflict in the world; the social war. It’s going to take many years and many battles. I shall enlist.”
“Nonsense,” said Brisson, “you’re not a Red!”
The girl laughed and showed her snowy teeth: “I’m one kind of Red––not the kind that sold Russia to the boche––but I’m very, very red.”
“Everybody with a brain and a heart is more or less red in these days,” nodded Palla. “Everybody knows that the old order is ended––done for. Without liberty and equal opportunity civilisation is a farce. Everybody knows it except the stupid. And they’ll have to be instructed.”
“Very well,” said Brisson briskly, “here’s to the universal but bloodless revolution! An acre for everybody and a mule to plough it! Back to the soil and to hell with the counting house!”
They all laughed, but their brimming glasses went 24 up; then Estridge rose to re-wind the victrola. Palla’s slim foot tapped the parquet in time with the American fox-trot; she glanced across the table at Estridge, lifted her head interrogatively, then sprang up and slid into his arms, delighted.
While they danced he said: “Better go light on that champagne, Miss Dumont.”
“Don’t you think I can keep my head?” she demanded derisively.
“Not if you keep up with Ilse. You’re not built that way.”
“I wish I were. I wish I were nearly six feet tall and beautiful in every limb and feature as she is. What wonderful children she could have! What magnificent hair she must have had before she sheared it for the Woman’s Battalion! Now it’s all a dense, short mass of gold––she looks like a lovely boy who requires a barber.”