The thing had
had to be done. A great many men had been killed. A great number had
lost their legs, their arms, their sight. They had suffered
indescribable mutilations and disabilities in the national defense.
These people were the nation. Those who passed him with a shocked
glance at his face must be aware that fighting involves suffering and
scars. It appeared as if they wished to ignore that. The inevitable
consequences of war annoyed them, disturbed them, when they came face
to face with those consequences.
Hollister imagined them privately thinking he should wear a mask.
After all, he was a stranger to these folk, although he was their
countryman and a person of consequence until the war and Myra and
circumstances conspired against him.
He stifled the resentment which arose from a realization that he must
expect nothing else, that it was not injustice so much as stupidity.
He reflected that this was natural. A cynical conclusion arose in his
mind. There was no substance, after all, in this loose talk about
sympathy and gratitude and the obligation of a proud country to those
who had served overseas.
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