Drusilla was cutting the pie. "Isn't it glorious?"
Jean gazed at her with something like horror. Glorious! How could Drusilla go on, like Werther's Charlotte, calmly cutting bread and butter? Captain Hewes loved her, anybody with half an eye could see that—and whether she loved him or not, he was her friend—and she called his going "glorious!"
"I was afraid my wound might put me on the shelf," the Captain said.
"He is ordered straight to the front," Drusilla elucidated. "This is his farewell feast."
After that everything was to Jean funeral baked meats. The pie deep in its crust, rich with eggs and milk, defiant of conservation, was as sawdust to her palate.
Glorious!
Well, she couldn't understand Margaret. She couldn't understand Drusilla. She didn't want to understand them.
"Some day I shall go over," Drusilla was saying. "I shall drive something—it may be a truck and it may be an ambulance. But I can't sit here any longer doing nothing."
"I think you are doing a great deal," said Jean. "Look at the committees you are managing."
"Oh, things like that," said Drusilla contemptuously. "Women's work. I'm not made to knit and keep card indexes. I want a man's job."