possible.

“A nation that could glory in the destruction of such beautiful things as these cathedrals will stop at nothing.” But still she kept on saying: “Bobby will light on his feet! Bobby will light on his feet!” She no longer trusted the Germans, but she had infinite faith in the sagacity and cleverness of her father. He always had got himself out of difficult and tight places and he always would.

In the meantime, money was getting very low. Try as she would to economize, excitement made her hungry and she must eat and eat three times a day.[82]

[82]

“If I only had Molly Brown’s skill and could cook for myself!” she would groan as she tried to choke down the muddy concoction that she had just succeeded in brewing and was endeavoring to persuade herself tasted a little like coffee. She remembered with swimming eyes the beautiful little repasts they had had in the Bents’ studio during that memorable winter.

“Judy Kean, you big boob! I believe my soul you are going to bawl about a small matter of food. If the destruction of Louvain did not make you weep, surely muddy coffee ought not to bring tears to your eyes, unless maybe they are tears of shame.”

The truth of the matter was, Judy was lonesome and idle. She could not make up her mind to paint. Things were moving too fast and there was too much reality in the air. Art seemed unreal and unnecessary, somehow. “Great things will be painted after the war but not now,” she would say. She carried her camera with her wherever she went and snapped up groups of women and children, soldiers kissing their old[83] fathers, great ladies stopping to converse with the gamin of the street; anything and everything went into her camera. She spent more money on films than on food, in spite of her healthy hunger.

[83]

On that morning in September as she cleared away the scraps from her meager breakfast, her eyes swimming from lonesomeness, appetite unappeased and a kind of nameless longing, she almost determined to throw herself on the mercy of the American Legation for funds to return to New York. The Americans had cleared out of Paris until there were very few left. Judy would occasionally see the familiar face of some art student she had known in the class, but those familiar faces grew less and less frequent.

“There’s the Marquise! I can always go to her, but I know she is taken up with her grief over 

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