while public opinion on the boat made eminently proper rules against young women in the smoking room, still young blood did have its way, which really is a good way; better than we think, perhaps, who look back in cold blood and old blood.  And by the token of our years it was brought to us that war is the game of youth.  We were two middle-aged old coots—­though still in our forties and not altogether blind to a pretty face—­and yet the oldest people on the boat.  Even the altruistic side of war is the game of youth.

Perhaps it is the other way around, and maybe youth is the only game in the world worth playing and that the gains of youth, service and success and follies and failures, are only the chips and counters.  We were brought to these conclusions more or less by a young person, a certain Miss Ingersoll, or perhaps her name only sounded like that; for we called her the Eager Soul.  And she was a pretty girl, too—­American pretty:  Red hair—­lots of blowy, crinkly red hair that was always threatening to souse her face and ears; blue eyes of the serious kind and a colour that gave us the impression that she did exercises and could jab a punching bag.  Indeed before we met her, we began betting on the number of hours it would take her to tell us that she took a cold plunge every morning.  Henry expected the statement on the second day; as a matter of fact it came late on the first day!  She was that kind.  But there was no foolishness about her.  She was a nurse—­a Red Cross nurse, and she made it clear that she had no illusions about men; we suspected that she had seen them cut up and knew their innermost secrets!  Nevertheless she was tremendously interesting, and because she, too, was from the middle west, and possibly because she realized that we accepted her for what she was, she often paced the rounds of the deck between us.  We teased her more or less about a young doctor of the Johns Hopkins unit who sometimes hovered over her deck chair and a certain Gilded Youth—­every boat-load has its Gilded Youth—­whose father was president of so many industrial concerns, and the vice-president of so many banks and trust companies that it was hard to look at the boy without blinking at his gilding.  Henry was betting on the Gilded Youth; so the young doctor fell to me.  For the first three or four days during which we kept fairly close tab on their time, the Doctor had the Gilded Youth beaten two hours to one.  Henry bought enough lemonade for me and smoking room swill of one sort and another to start his little old Wichita ocean But it was plain that the Gilded Youth interested her.  And in a confidential moment filled with laughter and chaff and chatter she told us why:  “He’s patronizing me.  I mean he doesn’t know it, and he thinks I don’t know it; but that’s what he’s doing.  I interest him as a social specimen.  I mean—­I’m a bug and he likes to take me up and examine me.  I think I’m the first ‘Co-ed’ he ever has seen; the first girl who voted and didn’t let