s, uniforms, Fisk, or Ritz, but of her husband's right
hand, which, as he turned away from the cab, had been folded tight into
a fist.

She meant to ask an explanation of the clenched fingers; but the
Serbians, despite their four tragic years, turned out to be as sprightly
as their uniforms, and it was past midnight when the Fannings dropped
her at her door. Her husband was rather ostentatiously asleep. As she
doffed her warlike garments, her feminine canniness warned her that this
was no time for explanations. Tomorrow morning would be better.

But next morning's breakfast turned out to be all Jock.

A letter from Grace, his wife. Grace McChesney had been Grace Gait, one
of the youngest and cleverest women advertising writers in the
profession. When Jock was a cub in the Raynor office she had been
turning out compelling copy. They had been married four years. Now Jock
ruled a mahogany domain of his own in the Raynor suite overlooking the
lake in the great Michigan Avenue building. And Grace was saying, "Eat
the crust, girlie. It's the crust that makes your hair grow curly."

Emma, uniformed for work, read hasty extracts from Grace's letter. Buck
listened in silence.

"You wouldn't know Jock. He's restless, irritable, moody. And the queer
part of it is he doesn't know it. He tries to be cheerful, and I could
weep to see him. He has tried to cover it up with every kind of war work
from Red Crossing to Liberty Loaning, and from writing free full-page
national advertising copy to giving up his tobacco money to the smoke
fund. And he's miserable. He wants to get into it. And he ought. But you
know I haven't been really husky since Buddy came. Not ill, but the
doctor says it will be another six months before I'm myself, really. If
I had only myself to think of--how simple! But two kiddies need such a
lot of things. I could get a job at Raynor's. They need writers. Jock
says, bitterly, that all the worth-while men have left. Don't think I'm
complaining. I'm just trying to see my way clear, and talking to someone
who understands often clears the way."

"Well!" said Emma.

And, "Well?" said T.A.

She sat fingering the letter, her breakfast cooling before her. "Of
course, Jock wants to get into it. I wish he could. I'd be so proud of
him. He'd be beautiful in khaki. But there's work to do right here. And
he ought to be willing to wait six months."

"They can't wait six months over there, Emma. They need him now."

"O