He heard
Edith's curt reply:
"No, I can't, not nowadays. Nobody _else_ seems to think of them."
"You mean that I don't!"
"Do you?"
"Yes! I'm thinking of George! Do you want him killed in the trenches--in a
war with Germany or Japan?"
"Are you utterly mad?" demanded Edith.
"No, I'm awake--my eyes are open! But yours are shut so tight, my dear, you
can't see what has happened! You know this war has made us poor and your
own life harder, but that's all. The big thing it has done you know nothing
about!"
"Suppose you teach me," Edith said, with a prim provoking little smile.
Deborah turned on her angrily:
"It has shown that all such mothers as you are out of date and have got to
change! That we're bound together--all over the world--whether we like it
or whether we don't! And that if we want to keep out of war, we've got to
do it by coming right out of our own little homes--_and thinking, Edith,
thinking!_"
"Votes for women," Edith said. Deborah looked at her, rose with a shrug.
"All right, Edith, I give up."
"Thank you. I'm not worth it. You'd better go back to your office now and
go on with your work of saving the world. And use every hour of your time
and every dollar you possess. I'll stay here and look after my children."
Deborah had gone into the hall. Roger, buried deep in his paper, heard the
heavy street door close. He looked up with a feverish sigh--and saw at the
open door of his study George and Betsy standing, curious, solemn and wide
eyed.
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