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The shorthand was a failure; the whole course was
a failure. She had not the instinct for plodding, for the
meticulous attention to detail that those absurd, irrational lines
and hooks and curves demanded.
She could not even spell! And an idiot of an instructor had found
fault with the large square band she wrote, as being uncommercial.
Uncommercial! Of course it was. So was she uncommercial. She had
dreamed a dream of usefulness, but after all, why was she doing it?
We would never fight. Here we were, saying to Germany that we had
ceased to be friends and letting it go at that.
She might go to England. They needed women there. But not
untrained women. Not, she thought contemptuously, women whose only
ability lay in playing bridge, or singing French chansons with no
particular voice.
After all, the only world that was open to her was her old world.
It liked her. It even understood her. It stretched out a tolerant,
pleasure-beckoning hand to her.
"I'm a fool," she reflected bitterly.


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