A psychic tale in which a lovely woman, dead some fifteen years, tries most earnestly to deliver a message to a young man who is very modern and very much alive. Alone she seems unable to effect her purpose, although he is trying his utmost to understand, and she summons to her aid the shapes of the dead and the--presumably--astral forms of whom some are still alive. --New York Times
atever," he said. "I'm rapidly growing taciturn."
"What I would like to ask you," Mr. Phillips broke in, "does war seem such a pretty thing to you, young man, after you've seen a little of it? I remember in '65 most of us came back thinking that Sherman hadn't used strong enough language."
"Mr. Phillips," Lindsay answered, "if there's ever another war, it will take fifteen thousand dollars to send me a postcard telling me about it."
The talk drifted away from the war: turned to prohibition; came back to it again. Lindsay answered Mr. Phillips's questions with enthusiastic thoroughness. They pertained mainly to his training at Pau and Avord, but Lindsay volunteered a detailed comparison of the American military method with the French. "I'll always be glad though," he concluded, "that I had that experience with the French Army. And of course when our troops got over, I was all ready to fly."
"Then the French uniform is so charming," Gratia put in, consciously sarcastic.