"But you don't know her well--outside of having mentally vivisected her?"

Estridge laughed: "Palla Dumont and I have been through some rather hair-raising sc.r.a.pes together. And I'll admit right now that she possesses all kinds of courage--perhaps too many kinds."

"How do you mean?"

"She has the courage of her convictions and her convictions, sometimes, don't amount to much."

"Go on and cut her up," said Shotwell, sarcastically.

"That's the only fault I find with Palla Dumont," explained the other.

"I thought you said she was a type?"

"She is,--the type of unmarried woman who continually develops too much pep for her brain to properly take care of."

"You mean you consider Palla Dumont neurotic?"

"No. Nothing abnormal. Perhaps super-normal--pathologically speaking.

Bodily health is fine. But over-secretion of ardent energy sometimes disturbs one's mental equilibrium. The result, in a crisis, is likely to result in extravagant behavior. Martyrs are made of such stuff, for example."

"You think her a visionary?"

"Well, her reason and her emotions sometimes become rather badly entangled, I fancy."

"Don't everybody's?"

"At intervals. Then the thing to do is to keep perfectly cool till the fit is over."

"So you think her impulsive?"

"Well, I should say so!" smiled Estridge. "Of course I mean nicely impulsive--even n.o.bly impulsive.... But that won't help her. Impulse never helped anybody. It's a spoke in the wheel--a stumbling block--a stick to trip anybody.... Particularly a girl.... And Palla Dumont mistakes impulse for logic. She honestly thinks that she reasons." He smiled to himself: "A disturbingly pretty girl," he murmured, "with a tender heart ... which seems to do all her thinking for her.... How well do you know her, Jim?"

"Not well. But I'm going to, I hope."

Estridge glanced up interrogatively, suddenly remembering all the uncontradicted gossip concerning a tacit understanding between Shotwell, Jr., and Elorn Sharrow. It is true that no engagement had been announced; but none had been denied, either. And Miss Sharrow had inherited her mother's fortune. And Shotwell, Jr., made only a young man's living.

"You ought to be rather careful with such a girl," he remarked carelessly.

"How, careful?"

"Well, she's rather perilously attractive, isn't she?" insisted Estridge smilingly.

"She's extremely interesting."

"She certainly is. She's rather an amazing girl in her way. More amazing than perhaps you imagine."

"Amazing?"

"Yes, even astounding."

"For example?"

"I'll give you an example. When the Reds invaded that convent and seized the Czarina and her children, Palla Dumont, then a novice of six weeks, attempted martyrdom by pretending that she herself was the little Grand d.u.c.h.ess Marie. And when the Reds refused to believe her, she demanded the privilege of dying beside her little friend. She even insulted the Reds, defied them, taunted them until they swore to return and cut her throat as soon as they finished with the Imperial family. And then this same Palla Dumont, to whom you sold a house in New York the other day, flew into an ungovernable pa.s.sion; tried to batter her way into the cellar; shattered half a dozen chapel chairs against the oak door of the crypt behind which preparations for the a.s.sa.s.sination were taking place; then, helpless, called on G.o.d to interfere and put a stop to it. And, when deity, as usual, didn't interfere with the scheme of things, this girl tore the white veil from her face and the habit from her body and denounced as nonexistent any alleged deity that permitted such things to be."

Shotwell gazed at Estridge in blank astonishment.

"Where on earth did you hear all that dope?" he demanded incredulously.

Estridge smiled: "It's all quite true, Jim. And Palla Dumont escaped having her slender throat slit open only because a sotnia of Kaladines' Cossacks cantered up, discovered what the Reds were up to in the cellar, and beat it with Palla and another girl just in the nick of time."

"Who handed you this cinema stuff?"

"_The other girl._"

"You believe her?"

"You can judge for yourself. This other girl was a young Swedish soldier who had served in the Battalion of Death. It's really cinema stuff, as you say. But Russia, to-day, is just one h.e.l.l after another in an endless and b.l.o.o.d.y drama. Such picturesque incidents,--the wildest episodes, the craziest coincidences--are occurring by thousands every day of the year in Russia.... And, Jim, it was due to one of those daily and crazy coincidences that my sleigh, in which I was beating it for Helsingfors, was held up by that same sotnia of the Wild Division on a bitter day, near the borders of a pine forest.

"And that's where I encountered Palla Dumont again. And that's where I heard--not from her, but from her soldier comrade, Ilse Westgard--the story I have just told you."

For a while they continued to walk up and down in silence.

Finally Estridge said: "_There_ was a girl for you!"

"Palla Dumont!" nodded Shotwell, still too astonished to talk.

"No, the other.... An amazing girl.... Nearly six feet; physically perfect;--what the human girl ought to be and seldom is;--symmetrical, flawless, healthy--a super-girl ... like some young daughter of the northern G.o.ds!... Ilse Westgard."

"One of those women soldiers, you say?" inquired Shotwell, mildly curious.

"Yes. There were all kinds of women in that Death Battalion. We saw them,--your friend Palla Dumont and I,--saw them halted and standing at ease in a birch wood; saw them marching into fire.... And there were all sorts of women, Jim; peasant, bourgeoise and aristocrat;--there were dressmakers, telephone operators, servant-girls, students, Red Cross nurses, actresses from the Marinsky, Jewesses from the Pale, sisters of the Yellow Ticket, j.a.panese girls, Chinese, Cossack, English, Finnish, French.... And they went over the top cheering for Russia!... They went over to shame the army which had begun to run from the hun.... Pretty fine, wasn't it?"

"Fine!"

"You bet!... After this war--after what women have done the world over--I wonder whether there are any a.s.ses left who desire to restrict woman to a 'sphere'?... I'd like to see Ilse Westgard again,"

he added absently.

"Was she a peasant girl?"

"No. A daughter of well-to-do people. Quite the better sort, I should say. And she was more thoroughly educated than the average girl of our own sort.... A brave and cheerful soldier in the Battalion of Death.... Ilse Westgard.... Amazing, isn't it?"

After another brief silence Shotwell ventured: "I suppose you'd find it agreeable to meet Palla Dumont again, wouldn't you?"

"Why, yes, of course," replied the other pleasantly.

"Then, if you like, she'll ask us to tea some day--after her new house is in shape."

"You seem to be very sure about what Palla Dumont is likely to do,"

said Estridge, smiling.