house to grasp his hand—shake it, wring it, learn his story, had brought the color more than once to Mrs. Hollister's cheeks.
She tried always now to hover near Vincent whenever he became entangled in a group of people, so as to ward off annoying questions and remarks. Especially she tried to protect and guard him from over-zealous women. Nothing seemed to rub Vincent the wrong way as much as a woman, young or old, who got him alone in a corner, and asked to see his war-cross, gazed worshipfully upon the jagged white scar upon his forehead and made eloquent remarks about "our splendid men." Vincent told his mother that if he drew one of that sort at her dinner-party, he wouldn't be responsible for the results.
Mrs. Hollister was well aware that it was impossible for twelve or fourteen people to sit together for more than ten minutes at a time and not talk about the war, but by placing herself at one end of the table and Mr. Hollister at the other, and Barbara half-way down one side, she calculated that, between the three of them they could control the conversation in their vicinity. She impressed upon her aides the importance of keeping up as many tête-à-têtes as possible—for, under cover of the busy hum of many voices, Vincent's reluctance to discuss the war would not
