Mrs. Flitch was so fluffed up by this involuntary vote of confidence in her rib stitch and her point of view that she turned to Helen and asked her if she did not “think so too.” Helen answered no, she did not think so, because then everybody would follow their own fancies in the making of these supplies, and there would be no system. Mrs. Flitch’s needle flickered like a tiny spear as she hoisted it with a jerk, bent over and bit off her thread as if this thread was the head of an enemy. Another “short circuit”! Another fuse of conversation burned out! Tongues flew like babbling wings to cover the breach. Mrs. Flitch sat drawn up and reared back, cheeks reddening as if a wasp had stung her in the face. Helen was like a tactless person who contributes an adverse opinion upon stepmothers in a company where several eminently respectable ladies have married widowers with children. She felt the sparks about her, but she was not dismayed. She did not care how Mrs. Flitch felt. She had reached that invulnerable stage of indifference arrived at only through great suffering or moral abandonment. In either case, it is always a state of mental courage. Mrs. Arnold was chairman of the Red Cross Chapter in Shannon. She sat at the head of the work table during these snapped-off conversations, discreetly silent. She was pursuing her own train of thought. Helen stood up presently to put on her coat. She regarded this supple, wisp-waisted woman with secret amazement. For she was the only one there who had seen the nursery decorations in that new west wing room of the Cutter residence. Her mind worked like the nose of a rabbit at Helen, as the latter took her departure. The consensus of opinion after she went out was that she had “changed,” with Mrs. Flitch in the minority. She said she could not see any difference. “She’s only changed her ugly gray coat and blue hat for a good-looking coat and fur hat.” This was all that was said about her. Gossip, if you remember, was much neglected during this period. We indulged in it briefly and went back to the transfiguring sensations of our martial emotions. CHAPTER XVII And Helen went home, let herself into her fine house, took off her things and sat down before the library fire. She really had imported a maid, an ex-modiste of mature years, who would be of service to her in the choosing of her clothes and dressing herself properly. She could hear this woman now moving about in the next room getting out her things. She was practicing dressing for the evening, because now she had a purpose and a future in view which some years hence might involve toilettes and magnificence.