Waffle-making was an art with Julie. In the practice of it she even forgot her usual feeling of constraint and breathlessness toward Elizabeth, and served her as eagerly as the rest. In her unconscious delight in doing a thing she loved to do and could do well, she created a content and serenity that drew Mr. Bixby’s eyes continually toward her, and also made the Reverend Mr. Seabrook, who appeared to harbor no malice for that brief episode in the church, rather absent to Elizabeth’s stream of talk. Elizabeth had come to the party intent on making an impression, but much as her elaborate talk and dashing costume thrust her into the foreground, she felt herself constantly in danger of being swept away into the background every time that Julie entered with fresh waffles. It was the summer of 1918, and naturally most of the fitful conversation turned upon the war, although Elizabeth said flatly that she was just sick to death of the hateful business; and Aunt Sadie answered Brother Seabrook’s scraps of war news with, “Yes, yes--have some preserves?” The reverend gentleman, however, was patriotic, and would not be deflected from the subject. “Well,” Elizabeth said, at last, making the best of it, “my husband’s liable to get his draft call most any time now. It’ll be right hard on me, but if the country needs him, I’ll have to give him, I reckon. Everybody’s got to do their bit.” She patted her hair and sighed, basking in her own nobility. Though Aunt Sadie tolerated Elizabeth, she was apt to flash out at her every now and again. “_You_ give him?” she snorted. “Humph! that sounds mighty grand, but believe _me_ if Uncle Sam wants him, he’ll take him all right, without any giving on your part.” Elizabeth’s eyes glittered angrily. She did not quite dare to cross swords with the older woman, so she turned upon her husband. “Well, he’ll make a great soldier, won’t he!” she jeered. “Why, I wouldn’t hardly think he was up to the standard height,” Brother Seabrook said, running his eye appraisingly over Mr. Bixby. “Oh, it ain’t always the biggest men makes the best soldiers,” Mrs. Johnson protested. They all fixed their scrutinizing eyes upon the little man, but none of them spoke directly to him, unconsciously following the impersonal attitude that Elizabeth had adopted. Julie was standing in the background, having just returned from the kitchen. She had paused involuntarily when she heard Elizabeth’s remark about Mr. Bixby’s being drafted, and her eyes went quickly to his face. She saw his lips give that faint nervous twitch, and his face stiffen. Then when they all turned their impersonal scrutiny upon him, as though they were inspecting some curious specimen, she saw the unhappy crimson flush up to his eyes.