“How do you happen to be out so early?” I countered. “I remember your telling me that you never allowed anything to break into your mornings—that you always worked until noon.” “Work!” she exclaimed, throwing out her hand in a gesture of despair. “What’s the use of work? I can’t sell a line—not one line. They only want war, war, nothing but war. War! I’m sick of it. Why will people read about the war?” “Because we’ve all got somebody at the front, I reckon—sons, brothers, husbands, sweethearts, or at least a friend,” I replied, trying to make my tone pleasant. There could be no doubt about the woman’s harassed state of mind, whatever the cause. There were deep furrows between her brows, and the lines at the corners of her eyes looked more like turkey feet than those of a crow. “I have not,” she exulted. “Not one drop of my blood is in this war. My family don’t believe in war. We——” “I’ve always noticed,” I cut in, “that you conscientious objectors to war are damned careful to live and own property in a country that does believe in war.” My cheeks burned, and I have an idea that I closely resembled a spitting wildcat. But I had listened to all of that sort of talk I was going to swallow from Hildegarde Hook and her “we villagers” ilk. “My dear!” she exclaimed, and I saw that my one poor little cuss word had shocked her. “I had no idea that you felt so—so keenly about—about the matter. If I had, of course——” “Well, I do feel keenly about this war. I feel keenly with every drop of blood in my body. There’s no use discussing it. You were speaking of your work. If you’d do publicity work——” “Publicity work? I’d be only too glad to, but they say I’ve no training.” No training! A woman who had written a half-score of popular novels, a number of short stories, and a multitude of articles!—no training! “But did they know who you are? Did you give your name?” I asked—the idea that this woman did not have sufficient training as a writer to do publicity work seemed the height of absurdity. She shook her head. She had tried every organization, she assured me. At the beginning of hostilities she might have gotten a position in Washington City, but the salary seemed too small. Now she regretted having refused that—if she had only known that the war would last so long, and that people would continue to read only war stories! She was over her head in debt, she told me. Every piece of property she possessed had been mortgaged up to the hilt. If the war continued she would be on the street, without even a roof to cover her. What must she do? Yet when I told her what I was doing I saw the surprise in her eyes change to contempt. It was all right to go through the tenements, even to live in them, for the sake of getting material. To live there for the sake of making both ends meet, to make my living, or even to take money for my work! That was another matter—put me quite beyond the pale of her respect.