“How wonderful!” Norma murmured.
“These etchings are from that last war. I saw them in Paris,” said Mr. Kent. “They are wonderful.”
“Wonderful and terrible,” Lieutenant Warren murmured.
One etching pictured a huge cannon belching forth hate in the form of black smoke, and emerging from that smoke was a beautiful woman. Her hands had been turned into claws, and on her face was a look of unutterable rage.
“And yet she is gorgeous,” Norma whispered.
The second etching showed a valiant French pilot falling from his wrecked and burning plane down to certain death. But beneath him, hands locked, waiting, ready to catch him and bear him away, were two beautiful angels.
“Yes,” said the Lieutenant who had been through so much in France. “This is war. It is beautiful and it is terrible.”
“This is war,” the gray-haired man agreed.
“And he really knows,” Norma thought.
“Come,” invited the hostess. “Dinner is about to be served.”