"Of course," said Johnson.
"Have you heard anything recent?" the younger Frenchwoman, Miss Boullard, asked softly. "About Paris?"
"No," said Michael, as gently as he could manage. "No news yet."
The two ladies nodded and smiled at him as though he had just presented them with bouquets.
"It'll fall," Johnson said. "Take my word for it."
Why the hell, Michael thought irritably, do we have this man here?
"The deal is on," said Johnson. "This is camouflage for the sake of the people of England and France. The Germans'll move into London in two weeks and a month later they'll all attack the Soviet Union." He said this triumphantly and angrily.
"I think you're wrong," Michael said doggedly. "I don't think it's going to happen. Somehow it's going to work out differently."
"How?" Johnson asked.
"I don't know how." Michael felt he must seem silly in Miss Freemantle's eyes and the thought annoyed him, but he persisted. "Somehow."
"A mystic faith," Johnson said derisively, "that Father will take care of everything. The bogy man won't be allowed into the nursery."
"Please," said Laura, "do we have to talk about it? Don't we want to play badminton? Miss Freemantle, do you play badminton?"
"Yes," said Miss Freemantle. Her voice is low and husky, Michael thought, automatically.
"When are people going to wake up?" Johnson demanded.
"When are they going to face the hard facts? There's a deal on to deliver the world. Ethiopia, China, Spain, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland…"
Those names, Michael thought, those grey names. They had been used so often that almost all emotional significance had been drained from them.
"Please," Laura said. "I'm dying to play badminton. Darling…" She touched Michael's arm. "The poles and the net and stuff are on the back porch."
Michael sighed and pushed himself heavily up from the ground. Still, Laura was probably right; it would be better than talking this afternoon.
"I'll help," Miss Freemantle said, standing up and starting after Michael.
"Johnson…" Michael couldn't resist a parting defiant shot.
"Johnson, has the possibility ever occurred to you that you might be wrong?"
"Of course," Johnson said with dignity. "But I'm not wrong now."
"Somewhere," Michael said, "there's got to be a little hope."
Johnson laughed. "Where do you shop for your hope these days?" he asked. "Have you got any to spare?"
"Yes," Michael said.
"What do you hope for?"
"I hope," Michael said, "that America gets into the war and…" He saw the two Frenchwomen staring at him, seriously, tremulously.
"The rackets," Laura said nervously, "are in that green wooden box, Michael…"
"You want Americans to get killed, too, in this swindle," Johnson said derisively. "Is that it?"
"If necessary," Michael said.
"That something new for you," Johnson said. "War-mongering."
"It's the first time I've thought of it," said Michael, coldly, standing over Johnson. "This minute."
"I get it," said Johnson. "A reader of the New York Times. Crazy to save civilization as we know it, and all that."
"Yes," said Michael. "I'm crazy to save civilization as we know it and all that."
"Come on, now," Laura pleaded. "Don't be ugly."
"If you're so, eager," Johnson said, "why don't you just go over and join the British Army? Why wait?"
"Maybe I will," said Michael, "maybe I will."
"Oh, no." Michael turned, surprised. It was Miss Freemantle who had said it, and she was standing now, with her hand over her mouth, as though the words had been surprised out of her.
"Did you want to say something?" Michael asked.
"I… I shouldn't have," the girl said. "I didn't want to interfere, but…" She spoke very earnestly. "You mustn't keep saying we should fight." A female member of the Party, Michael thought heavily; that's where Johnson picked her up. You'd never guess it, though, she was so pretty.
"I suppose," Michael said, "if Russia got into it, you'd change your mind."
"Oh, no," said Miss Freemantle. "It doesn't make any difference." Wrong again, Michael thought, I'm going to stop making these brilliant one-second judgments.
"It doesn't do any good," the girl went on hesitantly. "It never does. And all the young men go off and get killed. All my friends, my cousins… Maybe I'm selfish, but… I hate to hear people talking the way you do. I was in Europe, and that's the way they were talking there. Now, probably, a lot of the boys I knew then, that I used to go dancing with, and on skiing trips… They're probably dead. What for? They just talked and talked, until finally they'd got themselves to a point where the only thing they could do was kill each other. Forgive me," she said, very seriously. "I hadn't meant to shoot my mouth off. It's probably a silly female way of looking at the world…"
"Miss Boullard…" Michael turned to the two Frenchwomen. "As women, what's your position?"
"Oh, Michael!" Laura sounded very irritated.
"Our position…" The younger one spoke, softly, her voice controlled and polite. "I'm afraid we do not have the luxury of choosing our position."
"Michael," Laura said, "for God's sake, go get that stuff."
"Sure." Michael shook his head.
" Roy," Laura said to Johnson, "you shut up, too."
"Yes, Ma'am," said Johnson, smiling. "Should I tell you the latest gossip?"
"Can't wait," said Laura, in a good approximation of a completely light, untroubled, garden-party voice. Michael and Miss Freemantle started out towards the back of the house.
"Josephine's got a new one," Johnson said. "That tall blond boy with the Expression. The movie actor. Moran." Michael stopped when he heard the name and Miss Freemantle nearly bumped into him. "Picked him up at an art gallery, according to her. Weren't you in a picture with him last year, Laura?"
"Yes," Laura said. Michael looked at her appraisingly, trying to see if the expression on her face changed as she talked about Moran. Laura's expression hadn't changed. "He's quite a promising actor," she said. "A little light, but quite intelligent."
You never knew with women, Michael thought, they would lie their way into heaven without the flicker of an eyelash.
"He's coming over here," Johnson said. "Moran. He's up here for the first production of the summer theatre and I invited him over. I hope you don't mind."
"No," said Laura, "of course not." But Michael was watching her closely and he could see, for a fleeting instant, a swift tremor cross her face. Then she turned her head and Michael couldn't tell any more.
Marriage, he thought.
"Mr. John Moran," the younger Miss Boullard said. Her voice was lively and pleased. "Oh, I'm so excited! I think he's so wonderful. So masculine," she said, "such an important thing for an actor."
"Come on, Miss Freemantle, before my wife nags me again," Michael said. "We have work to do."
They walked side by side towards the back of the house. The girl was wearing a fresh perfume, and she walked in an easy, unaffected way that made Michael feel suddenly how young she was.
"When were you in Europe?" he asked. He didn't really care, but he wanted to hear her talk.
"A year ago," she said. "A little more than a year ago."
"How was it?"