g his agony, and trying not to admit the
transparency of the look about her hands and her temples. So much for
Chicago.

* * * * *

At five o'clock Emma left the war to its own devices and dropped in at
the loft building in which Featherlooms were born and grew up. Mike, the
elevator man, twisted his gray head about at an unbelievable length to
gaze appreciatively at the trim, uniformed figure.

"Haven't seen you around fur many the day, Mis' Buck."

"Been too busy, Mike."

Mike turned back to face the door. "Well, 'tis a great responsibility,
runnin' this war, an' all." He stopped at the Featherloom floor and
opened the door with his grandest flourish. Emma glanced at him quickly.
His face was impassive. She passed into the reception room with a little
jingling of buckles and strap hooks.

The work day was almost ended. The display room was empty of buyers. She
could see the back of her husband's head in his office. He was busy at
his desk. A stock girl was clearing away the piles of garments that
littered tables and chairs. At the window near the door Fisk, the
Western territory man, stood talking with O'Brien, city salesman. The
two looked around at her approach. O'Brien's face lighted up with
admiration. Into Fisk's face there flashed a look so nearly resembling
resentment that Emma, curious to know its origin, stopped to chat a
moment with the two.

Said O'Brien, the gallant Irishman, "I'm more resigned to war this
minute, Mrs. Buck, than I've been since it began."

Emma dimpled, turned to Fisk, stood at attention. Fisk said nothing. His
face was unsmiling. "Like my uniform?" Emma asked; and wished, somehow,
that she hadn't.

Fisk stared. His eyes had none of the softness of admiration. They were
hard, resentful. Suddenly, "Like it! God! I wish I could wear one!" He
turned away, abruptly. O'Brien threw him a sharp look. Then he cleared
his throat, apologetically.

Emma glanced down at her own trim self--at her stitched seams, her
tailored lengths, her shining belt and buckles, her gloved hands--and
suddenly and unaccountably her pride in them vanished.
Something--something--

She wheeled and made for Buck's office, her colour high. He looked up,
rose, offered her a chair. She felt strangely ill at ease there in the
office to which she had given years of service. The bookkeeper in the
glass-enclosed cubby-hole across the little hall smiled and nodded and
called through t