M.C.A., the
Salvation Army; British and American nurses; members of the fashionable
oeuvres artlessly watching this novel phase of Paris; the beautiful violet
uniform of Le Bien-Etre du Blesse; girls with worn faces and relaxed bodies
fresh from the front, hundreds of them, arriving daily in camions and cars,
thanking heaven for the sudden cessation of work, sleeping heaven knew
where. The American women of the Commission, and others who, like Mrs.
Wallack, had invented a plausible excuse to get to Paris and looked almost
anachronistic in their smart gowns, their fresh faces, their bright,
curious, glancing eyes.
There were also officers in the uniform of Britain, and Alexina regarded
them frankly, with no effort to deceive herself. The spirit of adventure
was awake in her, now that the dark mood had passed, or slept. She hoped to
meet the man of the embassy again, whether he were Gathbroke or another.
She had liked his eyes.
She had met many charming and interesting men during the last two and
a half years at Olive de Morsigny's table, especially when Andre,
convalescent, was at home. But their eyes had said nothing to her whatever,
if not for the want of trying. Alexina's imagination, torpid for many
months, ran riot. This man might disappoint her, might have nothing in him
for her, but she refused for more than a moment to contemplate anything so
flat. Something must come of that adventure, that vital intensely personal
moment when their eyes had met above flames so tiny the wonder was they
could see anything but a white blur on the dark.
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