first hysterical, wild reaction, ignoring still-bleeding wounds—but another trying to imitate it to hide even our scars. The people of the solemn morning and the pensive noon have gone home and changed their clothes, their faces and their hearts. All the signs that are left of the trying day are a few scattered poppies—some of them lying face down in the roadways, crushed in the mud under many feet.
We will remember only the victory to-night. We must laugh again. We feel that we have earned it.
So come along to the Trocadero!
We plunge into the great brilliant dining-room as though it were a fountain after a sultry November day. The center of the great chamber has been cleared of tables and is reeling with dancers. Already, many of the dancers and diners who came earlier are reacting under the champagne from the ordeal of the day. Streamers of colored paper, funny hats and crowns, balloons and toy horns, shrill whistles and exploding crackers reflect the carnival spirit, always punctuated by the popping corks. And so the evening progresses with increasing hilarity, merciful oblivion. Quite every one is laughing now; some are shouting or singing. The dancing is faster; the women more beautiful....
Good heavens! A thought half crosses our
