Jimmie raised his foot onto the top of a stool. He relaxed his weight against his knee. His gray eyes were blazingly alive; his reddish brown hair was uncombed, so that it jostled when he spoke. “The bunch that Father and Mother work with is sure baffling! They take the word of a pilot as gospelon all things military and aerodynamic. They sit on platforms with a prominent Socialist—and you ought to hear what Dad thinks about Socialism! They listen to anybody on their side, no matter how obvious. No matter if he’s a manifest crackpot, or publicity-crazed, or an ax-grinder, or a professional Irishman, or a long-established baiter of Britain, or a discredited politician trying to make headlines—just anybody! No rhyme, no reason, no order—just rant! And big applause.”
“Sure. I’ll introduce you to a few ‘interventionists,’ though, Jimmie—to keep you sane. You’ll find that they’ve pretty much thought their way through all the changes of black and white—to the real answer. It’s funny. The interventionist attitude toward the isolationist is one of worry. Worry about how to convert him. Worry about the factors that made him the way he is. An earnest attempt to reason with him. But the isolationist’s attitude toward his interventionist friend is just—rage. Instead of reason the isolationist has been using slogans. ‘Don’t plow under our boys.’ Frantic, hysterical swill like that. Malicious stuff.” The old man sighed. “The difference in their attitudes toward each other is just about a definition of who’s doing the calm thinking and who’s doing the terrified yelling. Well, Jimmie, there’s a lot wrong with America—”
“You tell me,” Jimmie said. “I’m liking this. At home, they shut me up. At home, their slogans are truth. My facts are propaganda. Even Audrey Wilson called me Duff Cooper at one point last night.”
Mr. Corinth’s eyebrows lifted. “So you’ve met our Audrey?”
“Yeah. Mother’s idea—at the beginning.”
“Mmmm.” The old man slid from his stool. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with America—and the world—some other time, Jimmie. Did you like her?”
“Who? Audrey? She’s attractive.”
“A mild phrase. Too mild. It protests too much—in converse. Audrey is to attractiveness what a flying fortress is to a box kite. I know Audrey pretty well. She tried to get a job here, once. Tried hard.”
“Audrey did? Doing what?”
“Learning chemistry. She’d polished off finishing school and she had an idea she’d become another Eve Curie.”