Some of Irene’s remarks were reported to Rilla; but they did not hurt her as they would once have done. They didn’t matter, that was all. Life was too big to leave room for pettiness. She had a pact to keep and a work to do; and through the long hard days and weeks of that disastrous autumn she was faithful to her task. The war news was consistently bad, for Germany marched from victory to victory over poor Roumania. “Foreigners—foreigners,” Susan muttered dubiously. “Russians or Roumanians or whatever they may be, they are foreigners and you cannot tie to them. But after Verdun I shall not give up hope. And can you tell me, Mrs. Dr. dear, if the Dobruja is a river or a mountain range, or a condition of the atmosphere?”
The Presidential election in the United States came off in November, and Susan was red-hot over that—and quite apologetic for her excitement.
“I never thought I would live to see the day when I would be interested in a Yankee election, Mrs. Dr. dear. It only goes to show we can never know what we will come to in this world and therefore we should not be proud.”
Susan stayed up late the evening of the seventh, ostensibly to finish a pair of socks. But she ’phoned down to Carter Flagg’s store at intervals, and when the first report came through that Hughes had been elected she stalked solemnly upstairs to Mrs. Blythe’s room and announced it in a thrilling whisper from the foot of the bed.
“I thought if you were not asleep you would be in- terested in knowing it. I believe it is for the best. Perhaps he will just fall to writing notes, too, Mrs. Dr.
