“But, Mrs. Tweed,” said the president, “this war is new to all of us—­how did we know what was coming?  It has taken all of us by surprise, and we have to do our bit in meeting the new conditions.  Your man was never a fighting man—­he hates it; but he has gone and will fight, although he loathes it.  I never did a day’s work outside of my home until now, and now I go to the office every day and try to straighten out tangles; women come in there and accuse me of everything, down to taking the bread out of their children’s mouths.  Two of them who brought in socks the other day said, ’Do you suppose the soldiers ever see them?’ I did all I could to convince them that we were quite honest, though I assure you I felt like telling them what I thought of them.  But things are abnormal now, everything is out of sorts; and if we love our country we will try to remedy things instead of making them worse.  When I went to school we were governed by what they called the ‘honor system.’  It was a system of self-government; we were not watched and punished and bound by rules, but graded and ruled ourselves—­and the strange thing about it was that it worked!  When the teacher went out of the room, everything went on just the same.  Nobody left her desk or talked or idled; we just worked on, minding our own affairs; it was a great system.”

Mrs. Tweed looked at her with a cynical smile.  “Some system!” she cried mockingly; “it may work in a school, where the little pinafore, pig-tail Minnies and Lucys gather; it won’t work in life, where every one is grabbing for what he wants, and getting it some way.  But see here,” she cried suddenly, “you haven’t called me down yet! or told me I am a disgrace to the Patriotic Fund! or asked me what will my husband say when he comes home!  You haven’t looked shocked at one thing I’ve told you.  Say, you should have seen old hatchet-face when I told her that I hoped the war would last forever!  She said I was a wicked woman!”

“Well—­weren’t you?” asked the president.

“Sure I was—­if I meant it—­but I didn’t.  I wanted to see her jump, and she certainly jumped; and she soon gave me up and went back and reported.  Then you were sent, and I guess you are about ready to give in.”

“Indeed, I am not,” said the president, smiling.  “You are not a fool—­I can see that—­and you can think out these things for yourself.  You are not accountable to me, anyway.  I have no authority to find fault with you.  If you think your part in this terrible time is to go the limit in fancy clothes, theaters, and late suppers with men of questionable character—­that is for you to decide.  I believe in the honor system.  You are certainly setting a bad example—­but you have that privilege.  You cannot be sent to jail for it.  The money you draw is hard-earned money—­it is certainly sweated labor which our gallant men perform for the miserable little sum that is paid them.  It is yours to do with as you like.  I had hoped that more of you young women would have come to help us in our work in the Red Cross and other places.  We need your youth, your enthusiasm, your prettiness, for we are sorely pressed with many cares and troubles, and we seem to be old sometimes.  But you are quite right in saying that it is your own business how you spend the money!”