thousands in costumes and decorations, receiving in return other thousands which they soberly turned over to the Cause. They found nothing ludicrous in this. Spasmodically they went into business or semi-professional ventures, defying the conventions. Paula did this, too. She or one of her friends were forever opening blouse shops; starting Gifte Shoppes; burgeoning into tea rooms decorated in crude green and vermilion and orange and black; announcing their affiliation with an advertising agency. These adventures blossomed, withered, died. They were the result of post-war restlessness. Many of these girls had worked indefatigably during the 1917-1918 period; had driven service cars, managed ambulances, nursed, scrubbed, conducted canteens. They missed the excitement, the satisfaction of achievement.
They found Dirk fair game, resented Paula’s proprietorship. Susans and Janes and Kates and Bettys and Sallys—plain old-fashioned names for modern, erotic misses—they talked to Dirk, danced with him, rode with him, firted with him. His very unattainableness gave him piquancy. That Paula Storm had him fast. He didn’t care a hoot about girls.
“Oh, Mr. DeJong,” they said, “your name's Dirk, isn’t it? What a slick name! What does it mean?”
“Nothing, I suppose. It’s a Dutch name. My people—my father’s people—were Dutch, you know.”
“A dirk’s a sort of sword, isn’t it, or poniard?
