the well-worn words descriptive of human behaviour seemed adequate. The epithets grouped about the name of “Attila” were too personal, too dramatic, too full of old, familiar human passion.
One afternoon in the first week of September Mrs. Wheeler was in the kitchen making cucumber pickles, when she heard Claude’s car coming back from Frankfort. In a moment he entered, letting the screen door slam behind him, and threw a bundle of mail on the table.
“What do you think, Mother? The French have moved the seat of government to Bordeaux! Evidently, they don’t think they can hold Paris.”
Mrs. Wheeler wiped her pale, perspiring face with the hem of her apron and sat down in the nearest chair. “You mean that Paris is not the capital of France any more? Can that be true?”
“That’s what it looks like. Though the papers say it’s only a precautionary measure.”
She rose. “Let’s go up to the map. I don’t remember exactly where Bordeaux is. Mahailey, you won’t let my vinegar burn, will you?”
Claude followed her to the sitting-room, where her new map hung on the wall above the carpet lounge. Leaning against the back of a willow rocking-chair, she began to move her hand about over the brightly coloured, shiny surface, murmuring, “Yes, there is Bordeaux, so far to the south; and there is Paris.”
Claude, behind her, looked over her shoulder. “Do you suppose they are going to hand their city over to the Germans, like a Christmas present? I should think they’d burn it first,
