She smiled. “You won’t have to walk,” she promised. I gathered up my gloves and purse, while she stood idly turning the pages of the volume of Ruskin’s essays. A paragraph caught her interest. She glanced at it, then, with attention, read aloud: “I shall therefore divide the war of which I would speak to you under three heads. War for exercise or play; war for dominion; and, war for defense.” “H’m’m,” I commented grimly, “Ruskin’s dead; if he were alive I doubt if he would have found anything very playful about _this_ war.” She made no comment, but read on: “Now, remember, whatever virtue or goodliness there may be in this game of war, rightly played, there is none when you thus play it with a multitude of human pawns.... If you, the gentlemen of this or any other kingdom, choose to make your pastime of contest, do so, and welcome; but set not up these unhappy peasant-pieces upon the checker of forest and field. If the wager is to be of death, lay it on your own heads, not theirs. A goodly struggle in the Olympic dust, though it be the dust of the grave, the gods will look upon and be with you in; but they will not be with you if you sit on the sides of the amphitheatre, whose steps are the mountains of earth, whose arena its valleys, to urge your peasant millions into gladiatorial war.” “I suppose he means compulsory military training,” I said. She did not answer. “Human beings are very pitiful, I think,” she said, “striving, hurrying, grasping--and for such paltry rewards.” She turned to me. “How many times, during your life, have you been completely, unquestioningly happy?” she demanded. “Well--” I parried uneasily. “You can’t remember once,” accused my friend, “no one can! If, for a few minutes, out of doors in the sunshine you are happy, how soon the old worries, the old fears, the old griefs, come flooding back. What’s it all about?” * * * * * I answered soberly, “Surely there is a cure--a way out of such a condition,” I said. “How American--how practical!” she commented dryly, and added: “Don’t forget to let me know when you discover it.” I felt queerly uneasy, worried and unhappy. “You won’t get anywhere by slumping,” I scolded. “I wasn’t getting anywhere, before,” she retorted; then questioned: “Wonder if those women feel that the second-hand furniture, pictures, and half-worn underclothes their husbands looted, at their behest, are worth what they have cost?” I was startled. “What women?” I asked. She flipped open my dog-eared book. “Do you just _buy_ Ruskin? Why don’t you _read_ him?” she asked, and hunted for a place. “Now listen!” she said, going on in her quiet, clear voice.