“Sure! I didn’t reckonise you. Used to leave the Star on your doorstep! Been away, ain’t you? Home looks kinda good to you, even if it’s kinda lonesome––” He checked himself as though recollecting something else. “Sure! You been over in Rooshia livin’ with the Queen! There was a piece in the Star about it. Gee!” he added affably. “That was pretty soft! Some life, I bet!”

And he grinned a genial grin and climbed into his seat, chewing rapidly.

“He means to be friendly,” thought the heart-sick girl, with a shudder.

When Palla got out she spoke pleasantly to him as she paid him, and inquired about his father––a shiftless old gaffer who used, sometimes, to do garden work for her aunt.

But the driver, obsessed by the fact that she had lived with the “Queen of Rooshia,” merely grinned and repeated, “Pretty soft,” and, shouldering her trunk, walked to the front door, chewing furiously.

Martha opened the door, stared through her spectacles.

“Land o’ mercy!” she gasped. “It’s Palla!” Which, in Shadow Hill, is the manner and speech of the “hired girl,” whose “folks” are “neighbours” and not inferiors.

“How do you do, Martha,” said the girl smilingly; and offered her gloved hand.

“Well, I’m so’s to be ’round––” She wheeled on the man with the trunk: “Here, you! Don’t go-a-trackin’ mud all over my carpet like that! Wipe your feet like as if you was brought up respectful!”

“Ain’t I wipin’ em?” retorted the driver, in an injured voice. “Now then, Marthy, where does this here trunk go to?”

“Big room front––wait, young fellow; you just follow me and be careful don’t bang the banisters–––”

Half way up she called back over her shoulder: “Your room’s all ready, Palla––” and suddenly remembered something else and stood aside on the landing until the young man with the trunk had passed her; then waited for him to return and get himself out of the house. Then, when he had gone out, banging the door, she came slowly back down the stairs and met Palla ascending.

“Where is my aunt?” asked Palla.

And, as Martha remained silent, gazing oddly down at her through her glasses:

“My aunt isn’t ill, is she?”

“No, she ain’t ill. H’ain’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Didn’t you get my letter?”

“Your letter? Why did you write? What is the matter? Where is my aunt?” asked the disturbed girl.

“I wrote you last month.”

“What did you write?”

“You never got it?”

“No, I didn’t! What has happened to my aunt?”

“She had a stroke, Palla.”

“What! Is––is she dead!”

“Six weeks ago come Sunday.”

The girl’s knees weakened and she sat down suddenly on the stairs.

“Dead? My Aunt Emeline?”

Martha’s spectacles became dim. She seated herself on the stairs and wiped them on her apron.

“It came in the night,” she said, peering blindly at Palla.... “I wondered why she was late to breakfast. When I went up she was lying there with her eyes open––just as natural–––”

Palla’s head dropped and she covered her face with both hands.

There remained, now, nothing to keep Palla in Shadow Hill.

She had never intended to stay there, anyway; she had meant to go to France.

But already there appeared to be no chance for that in the scheme of things. For the boche had begun to squeal for mercy; the frightened swine was squirting life-blood as he rushed headlong for the home sty across the Rhine; his death-stench sickened the world.

Thicker, ranker, reeked the bloody abomination in the nostrils of civilisation, where Justice strode ahead through hell’s own devastation, kicking the boche to death, kicking him through Belgium, through France, out of Light back into Darkness, back, back to his stinking sty.

The rushing sequence of events in Europe since Palla’s arrival in America bewildered the girl and held in abeyance any plan she had hoped to make.

The whole world waited, too, astounded, incredulous as yet of the cataclysmic debacle, slowly realising that the super-swine were but swine––maddened swine, devil driven. And that the Sea was very near.

No romance ever written approached in wild extravagance the story of doom now unfolding in the daily papers.

And these new personal responsibilities––now that her aunt was dead––must have postponed any hope of an immediate departure for France.

Her inheritance under her aunt’s will, the legal details, the inventory of scattered acreage and real estate, plans for their proper administration, consultations with an attorney, conferences with Mr. Pawling, president of the local bank––such things had occupied and involved her almost from the moment of her arrival home.

At first the endless petty details exasperated her––a girl fresh from the tremendous tragedy of things where, one after another, empires were crashing amid the conflagration of a continent. And she could not now keep her mind on such wretched little personal matters while her heart battered passionately at her breast, sounding the exciting summons to active service.

To concentrate her thoughts on mortgages and deeds when she was burning to be on her way to France––to confer power of attorney, audit bills for taxes, for up-keep of line fences, when she was mad to go to New York and find out how quickly she could be sent to France––such things seemed more than a girl could endure.

In Shadow Hill there was scarcely anything to remind her that the fate of the world was being settled for all time.

But already the eternal signs were pointing to the end. She read the Republican in the morning, the Star at night. Gradually it became apparent to the girl that the great conflagration was slowly dying down beyond the seas; that there was to be no chance of her returning; that there was to be no need of her services even if she were already equipped to render any, and now, certainly, no time for her to learn anything which might once have admitted her to comradeship in the gigantic conflict between man and Satan. She was too late. The world’s tragedy was almost over.

With the signing of the armistice, all dreams of service ended definitely for her.

False news of the suspension of hostilities should have, in a measure, prepared her. Yet, the ultimately truthful news that the war was over made her almost physically ill. For the girl’s ardent religious fervour had consumed her emotional energy during the incessant excitement of the past three years. But now, for this natural ardour, there was no further employment. There was no outlet for mind or heart so lately on fire with spiritual fervour. God was no more; her friend was dead. And now the war had ended. And nobody in the world had any need of her––any need of this woman who needed the world––and love––spiritual perhaps, perhaps profane.

The false peace demonstration, which set the bells of Shadow Hill clanging in the wintry air and the mill whistles blowing from distant villages, left her tired, dazed, indifferent. The later celebration, based on official news, stirred her spiritually even less. And she felt ill.

There was a noisy night celebration on Main Street, but she had no desire to see it. She remained indoors reading the Star in the sitting room with Max, the cat. She ate no dinner. She cried herself to sleep.

However, now that the worst had come––as she naïvely informed the shocked Martha next morning––she began to feel relieved in a restless, feverish way.

A healthful girl accumulates much bodily energy over night; Palla’s passionate little heart and her active mind completed a storage battery very quickly charged––and very soon over-charged––and an outlet was imperative.

Always, so far in her brief career, she had had adequate outlets. As a child she found satisfaction in violent exercises; in flinging herself headlong into every outdoor game, every diversion among the urchins of her circle. As a school girl her school sports and her studies, and whatever social pleasures were offered, had left the safety valve open.

Later, mistress of her mother’s modest fortune, and grown to restless, intelligent womanhood, Palla had gone abroad with a married school-friend, Leila Vance. Under her auspices she had met nice people and had seen charming homes in England––Colonel Vance being somebody in the county and even somebody in London––a diffident, reticent, agriculturally inclined land owner and colonel of yeomanry. And long ago dead in Flanders. And his wife a nurse somewhere in France.

But before the war a year’s travel and study had furnished the necessary outlet to Palla Dumont. And then––at a charity bazaar––a passionate friendship had flashed into sacred flame––a friendship born at sight between her and the little Grand Duchess Marie.

War was beginning; Colonel Vance was dead; but imperial inquiry located Leila. And imperial inquiry was satisfied. And Palla became the American companion and friend of the youthful Grand Duchess Marie. For three years that blind devotion had been her outlet––that and their mutual inclination for a life to be dedicated to God.

What was to be her outlet now?––now that the little Grand Duchess was dead––now that God, as she had conceived him, had ceased to exist for her––now that the war was ended, and nobody needed that warm young heart of hers––that ardent little heart so easily set throbbing with the passionate desire to give.

The wintry sunlight flooded the familiar sitting room, setting potted geraniums ablaze, gilding the leather backs of old books, staining prisms on the crystal chandelier with rainbow tints, and causing Max, the family cat, to blink until the vertical pupils of his amber eyes seemed to disappear entirely.

There was some snow outside––not very much––a wild bird or two among the naked apple trees; green edges, still, where snowy lawn and flower border met.

And there was colour in the leafless shrubbery, too––wine-red stems of dogwood, ash-blue berry-canes, and the tangled green and gold of willows. And over all a pale cobalt sky, and a snow-covered hill, where, in the woods, crows sat cawing on the taller trees, and a slow goshawk sailed.

A rich land, this, even under ice and snow––a rich, rolling land hinting of fat furrows and heavy grain; and of spicy, old-time gardens where the evenings were heavy with the scent of phlox and lilies.

But war is too completely the great destroyer, killing even the serener pleasures of the mind, corrupting normal appetite, dulling all interest except in what pertains to war.

War is the great vandal, too, obliterating even that interest in the classic past which is born of respect for tradition. War slays all yesterdays, so that human interest lives only in the fierce and present moment, or blazes anew at thought of what may be to-morrow.

Only the chronicles of the burning hour can hold human attention where war is. For last week is already a decade ago; and last year a dead century; but to-day is vital and to-morrow is immortal.

It was so with Palla. Her listless eyes swept the ranks of handsome, old-time books––old favourites bound in gold and leather, masters of English prose and poetry gathered and garnered by her grand-parents when books were rare in Shadow Hill.

Not even the modern masters appealed to her––masters of fiction acclaimed but yesterday; virile thinkers in philosophy, in science; enfranchised poets who had stridden out upon Olympus only yesterday to defy the old god’s lightning with unshackled strophes––and sometimes unbuttoned themes.

But it was with Palla as with others; she drifted back to the morning paper, wherein lay the interest of the hour. And nothing else interested her or the world.

After a while she went out to the dining room, ate enough, endured Martha to the verge, and retreated to await the evening paper.

Her attorney, Mr. Tiddley, came at three. They discussed quit-claims, mortgages, deeds, surveys, and reported encroachments incident to the decay of ancient landmarks. And the conversation maddened her.

At four she put on a smart mourning hat and her black furs, and walked down to see the bank president, Mr. Pawling. The subject of their conversation was investments; and it bored her. At five she returned to the house to receive a certain Mr. Skidder––known in her childhood as Blinky Skidder, in frank recognition of an ocular peculiarity––a dingy but jaunty young man with a sheep’s nose, a shrewd upper lip, and snapping red-brown eyes, who came breezily in and said: “Hello, Palla! How’s the girl?” And took off his faded mackinaw uninvited.

Mr. Skidder’s business had once been the exploitation of farmers and acreage; his specialty the persuasion of Slovak emigrants into the acquisition of doubtful land. But since the war, emigrants were few; and, as honest men must live, Mr. Skidder had branched out into improved real estate and city lots. But the pickings, even here, were scanty, and loans hard to obtain.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Palla. “I’m not going to sell this house, Blinky.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake––ain’t you going to New York?” he insisted, taken aback.

“Yes, I am. But I’ve decided to keep my house.”

“You’ve said several,” she remarked, smilingly. “But I think I’ll keep the house for the present, and I’m sorry that I wasted your time.”

“Please yourself, Palla,” he repeated. “I guess you can afford to from all I hear. I guess you can do as you’ve a mind to, now.... So you’re fixing to locate in New York, eh?”

“I think so.”

“Live in a flat?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you going to do in New York?” he asked curiously.

“I’m sure I don’t know. There’ll be plenty to do, I suppose.”

“You bet,” he said, blinking rapidly, “there’s always something doing in that little old town.” He slapped his knee: “Palla,” he said, “I’m thinking of going into the movie business.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’m considering it. Slovaks and bum farms are played out. There’s no money in Shadow Hill––or if there is, it’s locked up––or the income tax has paralysed it. No, I’m through. There’s nothing doing in land; no commissions. And I’m considering a quick getaway.”

“Where do you expect to go?”

“Say, Palla, when you kiss your old home good-bye, there’s only one place to go. Get me?”

“New York?” she inquired, amused.

“That’s me! There’s a guy down there I used to correspond with––a feller named Puma––Angelo Puma––not a regular wop, as you might say, but there’s some wop in him, judging by his map––or Mex––or kike, maybe––or something. Anyway, he’s in the moving picture business––The Ultra-Fillum Company. I guess there’s a mint o’ money in fillums.”

She nodded, a trifle bored.

“I got a chance to go in with Angelo Puma,” he said, snapping his eyes.

“Really?”

“You know, Palla, I’ve made a little money, too, since you been over there living with the Queen of Russia.”

“I’m very glad, Blinky.”

“Oh, it ain’t much. And,” he added shrewdly, “it ain’t so paltry, neither. Thank the Lord, I made hay while the Slovaks lasted.... So,” he added, getting up from his chair, “maybe I’ll see you down there in New York, some day–––”

He hesitated, his blinking eyes redly intent on her as she rose to her slim height.

“Say, Palla.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“Ever thought of the movies?”

“As an investment?”

“Well––that, too. There’s big money in it. But I meant––I mean––it strikes me you’d make a bird of a movie queen.”

The suggestion mildly amused her.

Palla laughed outright.

“So you think because I’ve seen a queen I ought to know how to act like a movie queen?”

“Well,” he said, picking up his hat, “maybe if I go in with Angelo Puma some day I’ll see you again and we’ll talk it over.”

She shook hands with him.

“Be good,” he called back as she closed the front door behind him.

The early winter night had fallen over Shadow Hill. Palla turned on the electric light, stood for a while looking sombrely at the framed photographs of her father and mother, then, feeling lonely, went into the kitchen where Martha was busy with preparations for dinner.

“Martha,” she said, “I’m going to New York.”

“Well, for the land’s sake–––”

“Yes, and I’m going day after to-morrow.”

“What on earth makes you act like a gypsy, Palla?” she demanded querulously, seasoning the soup and tasting it. “Your pa and ma wasn’t like that. They was satisfied to set and rest a mite after being away. But you’ve been gone four years ’n more, and now you’re up and off again, hippity-skip! clippity-clip!–––”

“I’m just going to run down to New York and look about. I want to look around and see what–––”

“What?”

“Pinched her paw in the mouse-trap.”

“I’ll be careful,” said the girl, laughing.

In touch with his unexciting business again, after many months of glorious absence, and seated once more at his abhorred yellow-oak desk, young Shotwell discovered it was anything except agreeable for him to gather up the ravelled thrums of civilian life after the thrilling taste of service over seas.

For him, so long accustomed to excitement, the zest of living seemed to die with the signing of the armistice.

In fact, since the Argonne drive, all luck seemed to have deserted him; for in the very middle of operations he had been sent back to the United States as instructor; and there the armistice had now caught him. Furthermore, then, before he realised what dreadful thing was happening to him, he had been politely assigned to that vague limbo supposedly inhabited by a mythical organisation known as The Officers’ Reserve Corps, and had been given indefinite leave of absence preliminary to being mustered out of the service of the United States.

To part from his uniform was agonising, and he berated the fate that pried him loose from tunic and puttees. So disgusted was he that, although the Government allowed three months longer before discarding uniforms, he shed his in disgust for “cits.”

And there they were, back again at the old grind before they could realise their horrid predicament––the majority already glum and restless under the reaction, and hating Shotwell, who, among them all, had been the only man to cross the sea.

This war-worn and envied veteran of a few months, perfectly aware that his military career had ended, was now trying to accept the situation and habituate himself to the loathly technique of commerce.

Out of uniform, out of humour, out of touch with the arts of peace; still, at times, all a-quiver with the nervous shock of his experience, it was very hard for him to speak respectfully to Mr. Sharrow.

As instructor to rookie aspirants he would have been somebody: he had already been somebody as a lieutenant of infantry in the thunderous scheme of things in the Argonne.

On the wall beside his desk hung a tinted map of the metropolis. Upon a table at his elbow were piled ponderous tomes depicting the Bronx in all its beauty, and giving details of suburban sewers. Other volumes contained maps of the fashionable residential district, showing every consecrated block and the exact location as well as the linear dimensions of every awesome residence and back yard from Washington Square to Yorkville.

By referring to a note-book which he carried in his breast pocket, young Shotwell could inform any grand lady or any pompous or fussy gentleman what was the “asking price” of any particular residence marked for sale upon the diagrams of the ponderous tomes.

Also––which is why Sharrow selected him for that particular job––clients liked his good manners and his engaging ways.

The average client buys a freshly painted house in preference to a well-built one, but otherwise clamours always for a bargain. The richer the client the louder the clamour. And to such demands Shotwell was always sympathetic––always willing to inquire whether or not the outrageous price asked for a dwelling might possibly be “shaded” a little.

It always could be shaded; but few clients knew that; and the majority, much flattered at their own business acumen, entertained kind feelings toward Sharrow & Co. and sentiments almost cordial toward young Shotwell when the “shading” process had proved to be successful.

War, naturally, had not improved matters; and, as far as the residential part of their business was concerned, Sharrow & Co. transacted the bulk of it in leasing apartments and, now and then, a private house, usually on the West Side.

That morning, in the offices of Sharrow & Co., a few clients sat beside the desks of the various men who specialised in the particular brand of real estate desired: several neat young girls performed diligently upon typewriters; old man Sharrow stood at the door of his private office twirling his eyeglasses by the gold chain and urbanely getting rid of an undesirable visitor––one Angelo Puma, who wanted some land for a moving picture studio, but was persuasively unwilling to pay for it.

He was a big man, too heavy, youngish, with plump olive skin, black hair, lips too full and too red under a silky moustache, and eyes that would have been magnificent in a woman––a Spanish dancer, for example––rich, dark eyes, softly brilliant under curling lashes.

He seemed to covet the land and the ramshackle stables on it, but he wanted somebody to take back a staggering mortgage on the property. And Mr. Sharrow shook his head gently, and twirled his eyeglasses.

“For me,” insisted Puma, “I do not care. It is good property. I would pay cash if I had it. But I have not. No. My capital at the moment is tied up in production; my daily expenses, at present, require what cash I have. If your client is at all reasonable–––”

“He isn’t,” said Sharrow. “He’s a Connecticut Yankee.”

For a moment Angelo Puma seemed crestfallen, then his brilliant smile flashed from every perfect tooth:

“That is very bad for me,” he said, buttoning-his showy overcoat. “Pardon me; I waste your time––” pulling on his gloves. “However, if your client should ever care to change his mind–––”

“One moment,” said Sharrow, whose time Mr. Puma had indeed wasted at intervals during the past year, and who heartily desired to be rid of property and client: “Suppose you deal directly with the owner. We are not particularly anxious to carry the property; it’s a little out of our sphere. Suppose I put you in direct communication with the owner.”

“Delighted,” said Puma, flashing his smile and bowing from the waist; and perfectly aware that his badgering had bored this gentleman to the limit.

“I’ll write out his address for you,” said Sharrow, “––one moment, please–––”

Angelo Puma waited, his glossy hat in one hand, his silver-headed stick and folded suede gloves in the other.

Like darkly brilliant searchlights his magnificent eyes swept the offices of Sharrow & Co.; at a glance he appraised the self-conscious typists, surmised possibilities in a blond one; then, as a woman entered from the street, he rested his gaze upon her. And he kept it there.

Even when Sharrow came out of his private office with the slip of paper, Angelo Puma’s eyes still remained fastened upon the young girl who had spoken to a clerk and then seated herself in a chair beside the desk of James Shotwell, Jr.

“The man’s name,” repeated Sharrow patiently, “is Elmer Skidder. His address is Shadow Hill, Connecticut.”

Puma turned to him as though confused, thanked him effusively, took the slip of paper, pulled on his gloves in a preoccupied way, and very slowly walked toward the street door, his eyes fixed on the girl who was now in animated conversation with young Shotwell.

As he passed her she was laughing at something the young man had just said, and Puma deliberately turned and looked at her again––looked her full in the face.

She was aware of him and of his bold scrutiny, of course––noticed his brilliant eyes, no doubt––but paid no heed to him––was otherwise preoccupied with this young man beside her, whom she had neither seen nor thought about since the day she had landed in New York from the rusty little Danish steamer Elsinore.

And now, although he had meant nothing at all to her except an episode already forgotten, to meet him again had instantly meant something to her.

For this man now represented to her a link with the exciting past––this young soldier who had been fresh from the furnace when she had met him on deck as the Elsinore passed in between the forts in the grey of early morning.

The encounter was exciting her a little, too, over-emphasising its importance.

“Fancy!” she repeated, “my encountering you here and in civilian dress! Were you dreadfully disappointed by the armistice?”

“I’m ashamed to say I took it hard,” he admitted.

“You’re very frank,” he said. “We’re supposed to rejoice, you know.”

“Oh, of course. I really do rejoice–––”

They both laughed.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “In my sober senses I am glad the war is over. I’d be a monster if I were not glad. But––what is going to take its place? Because we must have something, you know. One can’t endure a perfect void, can one?”

Again they laughed.

“It was such a tremendous thing,” she explained. “I did want to be part of it before it ended. But of course peace is a tremendous thing, too–––”

And they both laughed once more.

“Anybody overhearing us,” she confided to him, “would think us mere beasts. Of course you are glad the war is ended: that’s why you fought. And I’m glad, too. And I’m going to rent a house in New York and find something to occupy this void I speak of. But isn’t it nice that I should come to you about it?”

“Jolly,” he said. “And now at last I’m going to learn your name.”

“Oh. Don’t you know it?”

“I wanted to ask you, but there seemed to be no proper opportunity–––”

“Of course. I remember. There seemed to be no reason.”

“I was sorry afterward,” he ventured.

That amused her. “You weren’t really sorry, were you?”

“I really was. I thought of you–––”

“Do you mean to say you remembered me after the ship docked?”

“Yes. But I’m very sure you instantly forgot me.”

“I certainly did!” she admitted, still much amused at the idea. “One doesn’t remember everybody one sees, you know,” she went on frankly,“––particularly after a horrid voyage and when one’s head is full of exciting plans. Alas! those wonderful plans of mine!––the stuff that dreams are made of. And here I am asking you kindly to find me a modest house with a modest rental.... And by the way,” she added demurely, “my name is Palla Dumont.”

“Thank you,” he said smilingly. “Do you care to know mine?”

“I know it. When I came in and told the clerk what I wanted, he said I should see Mr. Shotwell.”

“James Shotwell, Jr.,” he said gravely.

“That is amiable. You don’t treasure malice, do you? I might merely have known you as Mr. Shotwell. And you generously reveal all from James to Junior.”

They were laughing again. Mr. Sharrow noticed them from his private office and congratulated himself on having Shotwell in his employment.

“When may I see a house?” inquired Palla, settling her black-gloved hands in her black fox muff.

“Immediately, if you like.”

“How wonderful!”

He took out his note-book, glanced through several pages, asked her carelessly what rent she cared to pay, made a note of it, and resumed his study of the note-book.

“The East Side?” he inquired, glancing at her with curiosity not entirely professional.

“I prefer it.”

From his note-book he read to her the descriptions and situations of several twenty-foot houses in the zone between Fifth and Third Avenues.

“Shall we go to see some of them, Mr. Shotwell? Have you, perhaps, time this morning?”

“I’m delighted,” he said. Which, far from straining truth, perhaps restrained it.

So he got his hat and overcoat, and they went out together into the winter sunshine.

Angelo Puma, seated in a taxi across the street, observed them. He wore a gardenia in his lapel. He might have followed Palla had she emerged alone from the offices of Sharrow & Co.

Shotwell Junior had a jolly morning of it. And, if the routine proved a trifle monotonous, Palla, too, appeared to amuse herself.

She inspected various types of houses, expensive and inexpensive, modern and out of date, well built and well kept and “jerry-built” and dirty.

Prices and rents painfully surprised her, and she gave up any idea of renting a furnished house, and so informed Shotwell.

So they restricted their inspection to three-story unfurnished and untenanted houses, where the neighbourhood was less pretentious and there was a better light in the rear.

But they all were dirty, neglected, out of repair, destitute of decent plumbing and electricity.

On the second floor of one of these Palla stood, discouraged, perplexed, gazing absently out, across a filthy back yard full of seedling ailanthus trees and rubbish, at the rear fire escapes on the tenements beyond.