es on a murky
night. Her nose, though no longer precisely trivial, would never be the
Whipple nose. Its lines were now irrevocably set in a design far less
noble. Her gown was shining, of an elusive shade that made Wilbur think
of ripe fruits--chiefly apricots, he decided. She was unquestionably
what she had confessed herself to be--a rattlepate. She rattled now,
with a little waiting, half-tremulous smile to mark her pauses, as if
she knew people would weigh and find her wanting, but hoped for
judgments tempered with mercy.

"Mad about the war? I should think so! Grandpa Gideon mad, and Harvey
D.--that dear thing's going to do something at Washington for a dollar a
year. You'd think it was the only honest money he'd ever earned if you
heard Merle talk about bankers sucking the life blood of the people.
Juliana taking charge of something and Mother Ella mad about
knitting--always tangled in yarn. She'll be found strangled in her own
work some day. And Uncle Sharon mad about the war, and fifty times
madder about Merle.

"D'you see Merle's picture in that New York paper yesterday?--all hair
and eyeglasses, and leaning one temple on the two first fingers of the
right hand--and guess what it said--'Young millionaire socialist who
denounces country's entrance into war!' Watch him--he's trying to look
like the picture now! Uncle Sharon read the 'millionaire socialist,' and
barked like a mad dog. He says: 'Yes, he'd be a millionaire socialist if
he was going to be any kind, and if he was going to be a burglar he'd
have to be one of these dress-suit burglars you always read about.'

"Of course he's awfully severe on Merle for not going to fight, but how
could he with his bad eyes? He couldn't see to shoot at people, poor
thing; and besides, he's too clever to be wasted like a common soldier.
He starts people to thinking--worth-while people. He says so himself.
Mixed up with all sorts of clever things with the most wonderful
names--garment workers and poet radicals and vorticists and new-arters
and everything like that, who are working to lift us up so nobody will
own anything and everybody can have what he wants. Of course I don't
understand everything they say, but it sounds good, so sympathetic,
don't you think?"

She had paused often with the little smile that implored pity for her
rattlepatedness. Now it prolonged itself as the orchestra became wildly
alive.

Winona had but half listened to Patricia's chatter. She had