the way the Russians did Moscow. They can do better than that now, they can dynamite it!”
“Don’t say such things.” Mrs. Wheeler dropped into the deep willow chair, realizing that she was very tired, now that she had left the stove and the heat of the kitchen. She began weakly to wave the palm leaf fan before her face. “It’s said to be such a beautiful city. Perhaps the Germans will spare it, as they did Brussels. They must be sick of destruction by now. Get the encyclopaedia and see what it says. I’ve left my glasses downstairs.”
Claude brought a volume from the bookcase and sat down on the lounge. He began: “Paris, the capital city of France and the Department of the Seine,—Shall I skip the history?”
“No. Read it all.”
He cleared his throat and began again: “At its first appearance in history, there was nothing to foreshadow the important part which Paris was to play in Europe and in the world,” etc.
Mrs. Wheeler rocked and fanned, forgetting the kitchen and the cucumbers as if they had never been. Her tired body was resting, and her mind, which was never tired, was occupied with the account of early religious foundations under the Merovingian kings. Her eyes were always agreeably employed when they rested upon the sunburned neck and catapult shoulders of her red-headed son.
Claude read faster and faster until he stopped with a gasp.
“Mother, there are pages of kings! We’ll read that some other time. I want to find out what it’s like now, and whether it’s going to have any more history.” He ran his finger up
