The winter which preceded the entrance of the United States into the war
was socially an extraordinary one. It was marked by an almost feverish
gayety, as though, having apparently determined to pursue a policy
dictated purely by self interest, the people wished to forget their
anomalous position. Like a woman who covers her shame with a smile. The
vast number of war orders from abroad had brought prosperity into homes
where it had long been absent. Mills and factories took on new life.
Labor was scarce and high.
It was a period of extravagance rather than pleasure. People played
that they might not think. Washington, convinced that the nation would
ultimately be involved, kept its secret well and continued to preach a
neutrality it could not enforce. War was to most of the nation a great
dramatic spectacle, presented to them at breakfast and in the afternoon
editions. It furnished unlimited conversation at dinner-parties, led
to endless wrangles, gave zest and point to the peace that made those
dinner parties possible, furnished an excuse for retrenchment here and
there, and brought into vogue great bazaars and balls for the Red Cross
and kindred activities.
But although the war was in the nation's mind, it was not yet in its
soul.
Life went on much as before. An abiding faith in the Allies was the
foundation stone of its complacency. The great six-months battle of the
Somme, with its million casualties, was resulting favorably. On the east
the Russians had made some gains. There were wagers that the Germans
would be done in the Spring.
But again Washington knew that the British and French losses at the
Somme had been frightful; that the amount of lost territory regained was
negligible as against the territory still held; that the food problem
in the British Islands was acute; that the submarine sinkings were
colossal. Our peace was at a fearful cost.
And on the edge of this volcano America played.
When Graham Spencer left the mill that Tuesday afternoon, it was to
visit Marion Hayden. He was rather bored now at the prospect. He would
have preferred going to the Club to play billiards, which was his custom
of a late afternoon. He drove rather more slowly than was his custom,
and so missed Marion's invitation to get there before the crowd.
Three cars before the house showed that she already had callers, and
indeed when the parlor-maid opened the door a burst of laughter greeted
him. The Hayden house was a general rendezvous. There were usually,
by seven o'clock, whiskey-and-soda glasses and tea-cups on most of the
furniture, and half-smoked cigarets on everything that would hold them,
including the piano.