Cy was to be heard publishing it abroad that if he couldn’t get the Widow Bogart’s permission to enlist, he’d run away and enlist without it.  He shouted that he “hated every dirty Hun; by gosh, if he could just poke a bayonet into one big fat Heinie and learn him some decency and democracy, he’d die happy.”  Cy got much reputation by whipping a farmboy named Adolph Pochbauer for being a “damn hyphenated German.” . . .  This was the younger Pochbauer, who was killed in the Argonne, while he was trying to bring the body of his Yankee captain back to the lines.  At this time Cy Bogart was still dwelling in Gopher Prairie and planning to go to war.

II

Everywhere Carol heard that the war was going to bring a basic change in psychology, to purify and uplift everything from marital relations to national politics, and she tried to exult in it.  Only she did not find it.  She saw the women who made bandages for the Red Cross giving up bridge, and laughing at having to do without sugar, but over the surgical-dressings they did not speak of God and the souls of men, but of Miles Bjornstam’s impudence, of Terry Gould’s scandalous carryings-on with a farmer’s daughter four years ago, of cooking cabbage, and of altering blouses.  Their references to the war touched atrocities only.  She herself was punctual, and efficient at making dressings, but she could not, like Mrs. Lyman Cass and Mrs. Bogart, fill the dressings with hate for enemies.

When she protested to Vida, “The young do the work while these old ones sit around and interrupt us and gag with hate because they’re too feeble to do anything but hate,” then Vida turned on her: 

“If you can’t be reverent, at least don’t be so pert and opinionated, now when men and women are dying.  Some of us—­we have given up so much, and we’re glad to.  At least we expect that you others sha’n’t try to be witty at our expense.”

There was weeping.

Carol did desire to see the Prussian autocracy defeated; she did persuade herself that there were no autocracies save that of Prussia; she did thrill to motion-pictures of troops embarking in New York; and she was uncomfortable when she met Miles Bjornstam on the street and he croaked: 

“How’s tricks?  Things going fine with me; got two new cows.  Well, have you become a patriot?  Eh?  Sure, they’ll bring democracy—­the democracy of death.  Yes, sure, in every war since the Garden of Eden the workmen have gone out to fight each other for perfectly good reasons—­handed to them by their bosses.  Now me, I’m wise.  I’m so wise that I know I don’t know anything about the war.”

It was not a thought of the war that remained with her after Miles’s declamation but a perception that she and Vida and all of the good-intentioners who wanted to “do something for the common people” were insignificant, because the “common people” were able to do things for themselves, and highly likely to, as soon as they learned the fact.  The conception of millions of workmen like Miles taking control frightened her, and she scuttled rapidly away from the thought of a time when she might no longer retain the position of Lady Bountiful to the Bjornstams and Beas and Oscarinas whom she loved—­and patronized.