This was too much for the irate old lady, so without making any adieux, she took her departure, scorning the polite a.s.sistance of her three nephews. Professor Green called her coachman and helped her into the great carriage she still held to, the kind seen now-a-days only in museums.

"Kent, how could you?" laughed Mrs. Brown, in spite of her attempt to look shocked.

"I think Kent was right," declared Molly. "How could he tell Aunt Clay he was going to France to get Judy? She would never have let up on it.

I'm glad she has gone, anyhow! We were having a very nice time without her."

"Molly!" and Mrs. Brown looked shocked. She always exacted a show of respect from her children to this very difficult elder sister Sarah.

"Oh, Mumsy, we have to break loose sometimes!" exclaimed Molly. "The idea of her saying Mildred was blue with cold! Criticising poor Sue, too! Goodness, I'd hate to be the one that Aunt Clay had taken a shine to. I'd almost rather have her despise me as she does."

"Not despise you, Molly,--you don't understand your Aunt Clay."

"Well, perhaps not, but she puts up a mighty good imitation of despising. I think it is because I look so like Cousin Sally Bolling and she never forgave the present Marquise d'Ochte for making fun of her long years ago. And then to crown it all, Cousin Sally got the inheritance from Greataunt Sarah Carmichael and married the Marquis, at least she married the Marquis and then got the inheritance. It was too much for Aunt Clay."

Mrs. Brown looked so pained that Molly stopped her tirade. Aunt Clay was the one person whom Molly could not love. She had a heart as big as all out doors but it was not big enough to hold Aunt Clay.

"Here comes Sue! How glad I am! She 'phoned she would be here before so very long. What a blessing she missed Aunt Clay! See, she is running the car herself and isn't it a beauty? Cyrus just got it for her and Sue runs it wonderfully well already. I forgot to write you about it, Kent.

But best of all! What do you think? Cyrus has had the muddy lane that was the cause of Sue's hesitating whether to take him or not all drained and macadamized. The approach to Maxton is simply perfect now."

"Good for Cyrus!" said Kent, jumping up to meet his sister, who drove her big car through the gate and up the driveway as though she had been running an automobile all her life.

"Only think, five Browns together again!" exclaimed Paul, as they seated themselves on the porch of the bungalow after duly admiring the new car.

Molly had Kizzie brew a fresh pot of tea and John was persuaded to eat some more thin slices of bread and b.u.t.ter.

"Yes, five of you together again," said Mrs. Brown wistfully. "Ah, me! I wish I could get all seven of you at Chatsworth once more. Indeed, I wish I had all of you back in the nursery again."

"But where would I come in then?" said Edwin Green whimsically.

"And little Mildred?" from Molly, hugging her infant.

"And Sue's new car, not to mention Cyrus?" teased Kent.

"You are right, children. I should be more of a philosopher.

"'The Moving Finger writes: and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.'"

Molly stood over Kent with a cup of steaming tea and taking her cue from her mother's quotation from the Rubaiyat and prompted by his knownothing att.i.tude with his Aunt Clay, she got off the stanza:

"Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare; To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair: Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where."

CHAPTER V.

LETTERS FROM PARIS AND BERLIN.

From Miss Julia Kean to Mrs. Edwin Green.

Paris, and no idea of the date.

No fixed address, but the American Club might reach me.

Molly darling:

Things are moving so fast that even I can't quite catch on, and you know I am some mover myself. Jo and I came to Paris as I wrote you we would, but I haven't seen her since. She told me in as polite words as she could command that she couldn't be bothered with me any more. At least that was the trend of her remarks. She has the business before her of making up to look as much like a man as possible and then of being taken into the aviation school.

I met an art student from Carlo Rossi's on the street and he told me Polly was already the proud driver of an ambulance. Lots of the American art students have enlisted or joined the Red Cross. If I liked sick folks or nursing, I think I'd join myself. I feel that I should be doing something while I wait to hear from Bobby. I hope to see the American Amba.s.sador next week. He is simply floored under with duties just now. I don't want any help from him, but just to find out something about Bobby and Mamma.

If you could see Paris now! Oh, Molly, our gay, beautiful, eternally youthful city has grown suddenly sad and middle-aged. There is no gaiety or frivolity now. Her step has changed from a dance to a march. Her laughter has turned to weeping, but silent weeping--she makes no outcry but one knows the tears are there. Her beautiful festive clothes are laid away and now there is nothing but khaki and mourning. The gallant little soldier is to discard his flaming red trousers and blue coat for khaki. The German finds him too easy a mark.

I begin to tremble for Paris, but strange to say I have no fear for myself.

I have seen the Amba.s.sador! He was very grave when I told him about Bobby. There was some English capital involved in the railroad that Bobby was to build in Turkey, and for that reason there may be some complication. He is to communicate with Gerard immediately. In the meantime, he advises me to go home. I told him I had no home, but would wait here until I found out something. He asked me if I had plenty of money and I told him yes, indeed, my letter of credit was good for almost any amount. I had not had to draw on it as I had stocked up before I went to G---- to keep house with the Polly Perkinses. The Amba.s.sador actually laughed at me. Do you know, I can't get any more money? What a fool I have been! I have been so taken up with Paris and the sights and sounds that money has never entered my head. I have quite a little left, though, and I intend to live on next to nothing.

The Bents have left for America and have given me their key to use their studio as I see fit. Mrs. Bent wanted me to go with them, but I can't go until we hear from Gerard. Now I am back in the Rue Brea! It seems strange to be there again where we had such a glorious winter. The studio where Kent and Pierce Kinsella lived all last year is vacant. I don't know where Pierce is. Gone to war, perhaps!

I spend the days on the streets, walking up and down, listening to the talk and watching the regiments as they move away. I ran across some old friends yesterday. You remember a wedding party I b.u.t.ted in on at St.

Cloud that day I scared all of you so when I took the wrong train from Versailles and landed at Chartres? Well, I ran plump against the bride on Montparna.s.se (only she is no longer a bride but had a rosy infant over her shoulder). She came out of a little delicatessen shop and her husband in war togs followed her, and there I witnessed their parting. I seem fated to be present at every crisis in their lives. The girl did not recognize me but the young man did. I had danced with him in too mad a whirl for him to forget me. Then came the old father and his wife who looked like a member of the Commune. They keep the little shop, it seems. I shook hands with them and together we waited for the young man's regiment to come swinging down the street. With another embrace all around, even me, he caught step with his comrades and was gone. The bonnemere clasped her daughter-in-law to her grenadier-like bosom and they mingled their tears, the rosy baby gasping for breath between the two. The old father turned to me:

"This is different from the last time we met, ma'mselle!"

"Yes, so different!"

"Come in and have a bite and sup with us. There is still something to eat in Paris besides horse flesh." His wife and daughter-in-law joined him in the invitation and so I went in. I enjoyed the meal more than I can tell you. The grenadier is some cook and although the fare was simple, it was so well seasoned and appetizing that I ate as I have not done since I got back to Paris. The truth of the matter is, I am living so cheap for fear of getting out of money and I am afraid I have been neglecting my inner man. I can't cook a thing myself, which is certainly trifling of me, and so have depended on restaurants for sustenance. I dressed the salad (you remember it is my one accomplishment) and it met with the approval of host and hostess.

I told them of my trouble and how I felt I must wait until I heard something definite of my mother and father, and they were all sympathy.

I have promised to come to them if I get into difficulty, and you don't know the comfortable feeling I have now that I have some adopted folks.

I might go to the Marquise d'Ochte, but I know she has all on her hands and mind that she can attend to. I don't need anything but just companionship. I am such a gregarious animal that I must have folks.

I am dying to hear from you and to know if Kent landed his job. Is he--well, angry with me for staying over? I would not have missed staying for anything, even if he should be put out. I can't believe he is, though. I had rather hoped for letters when the American mail came in this morning, but the man at the bank was very unfeeling and had nothing. n.o.body seems to be getting any mail. I wonder if they are stopping it for some reason or other. I have a great mind to take this to some American who is fleeing and have it mailed in New York. I will do that very thing. Good by, Molly--don't be uneasy about me. You know my catlike nature of lighting on my feet.

Your own, Judy.

From Mr. Robert Kean to his Daughter Julia.

Berlin.

My dear Judy:

I know you are intensely uneasy about us, but down in your heart you also know that we never get into sc.r.a.pes we can't get out of, and we will get out of this. This letter will probably be postmarked Sweden but that does not mean I am there. In fact, I am in durance vile here in Berlin. I am allowed to walk around the streets and to pay my own living expenses but leave Berlin I cannot. Your mother can't leave, either--not that she would. You know how she thinks that she protects me and so she insists that she will stay. I am allowed to write no letters and can receive none. I am getting this off to you by a clever device of your mother's, which I shall not divulge now for fear it might be seized and thus get an innocent person in bad with this remarkable Government.

I am kept here all because I know too much about the geography and topography of Turkey. Of course I have made careful maps of the proposed railroad from Constantinople, the one we have been trying to get the concessions for. Well, they have naturally seized the maps. But before I dreamed of the possibility of this war, for, like all of us fool Anglo Saxons, I have been nosing along like a mole, I had a talk with a high Prussian Muckamuck at dinner one evening about this proposed road and I drew the blame thing on the table cloth, and with bits of bread and salt cellars and what not I explained the whole topography of the country and the benefit it would be to mankind to have this particular railroad built, financed by my particular company. That was where I "broke my 'la.s.ses pitcher." Of course, having surveyed the country and made the maps, at least, having had a finger in the pie from the beginning, I can reproduce those maps from memory, if not very accurately, at least, accurately enough to get the Germans going if that particular information should be needed by the Allies.

Do you know what I see in this? Why, Turkey will be in this war before so very long.