Sophie was always on
some committee, directing some activity growing out of the war, Red
Cross work, Patriotic Fund, all those manifold avenues through which the
women fought their share of Canada's fight. For a pleasure-loving
creature Sophie Carr seemed to have undergone an astonishing
metamorphosis. She spent on these things, quietly, without parade or
press-agenting, all the energy in her, and she had no reserve left for
play. War work seemed to mean something to Sophie besides write-ups in
the society column and pictures of her in sundry poses. These things
besides, surrounded her with all sorts of fussy people, both male and
female, and through this cordon Thompson seldom broke for confidential
talk with her. When he did Sophie baffled him with her calm detachment,
a profound and ever-increasing reserve--as if she had ceased to be a
woman and become a mere, coldly beautiful mechanism for seeing about
shipments of bandage stuff, for collecting funds, and devising practical
methods of raising more funds and creating more supplies.
Thompson said as much to her one day. She looked at him unmoved,
unsmiling. And something that lurked in her clear gray eyes made him
uncomfortable, sent him away wondering.
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