. Flags of every nation, save one. Uniforms of every blue from
French to navy; of almost any shade save field green. Pongee-coloured
Englishmen, seeming seven feet high, to a man; aviators slim and
elegant, with walking sticks made of the propeller of their shattered
planes, with a notch for every Hun plane bagged. Slim girls, exotic as
the orchids they wore, gazing limpid-eyed at these warrior _elegants_.
Women uniformed to the last degree of tailored exquisiteness. Girls, war
accoutred, who brought arms up in sharp salute as they passed Emma. Buck
eyed them gravely, hat and arm describing parabolas with increasing
frequency as they approached Fiftieth Street, slackening as the
colourful pageant grew less brilliant, thinned, and faded into the park
mists.

Emma's cheeks were a glorious rose-pink. Head high, shoulders back, she
matched her husband's long stride every step of the way. Her eyes were
bright and very blue.

"There's a beautiful one, T.A.! The Canadian officer with the limp.
They've all been gassed, and shot five times in the thigh and seven in
the shoulder, and yet look at 'em! What do you suppose they were when
they were new if they can look like that, damaged!"

Buck cut a vicious little semi-circle in the air with his walking stick.

"I know now how the father of the Gracchi felt, and why you never hear
him mentioned."

"Nonsense, T.A. You're doing a lot." She did not intend her tone to be
smug; but if she had glanced sidewise at her husband, she might have
seen the pained red mount from chin to brow. She did not seem to sense
his hurt. They went on, past the plaza now. Only a few blocks lay
between them and their home; the old brownstone house that had been New
York's definition of architectural elegance in the time of T.A. Buck,
Sr.

"Tell me, Emma. Does this satisfy you--the work you're doing, I mean? Do
you think you're giving the best you've got?"

"Well, of course I'd like to go to France--"

"I didn't ask you what you'd like."

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir. I don't know what you call giving the best
one has got. But you know I work from eight in the morning until
midnight, often and often. Oh, I don't say that someone else couldn't do
my work just as well. And I don't say, either, that it doesn't include a
lot of dashing up and down Fifth Avenue, and teaing at the Ritz, and
meeting magnificent Missions, and being cooed over by Lady Millionaires.
But if you'd like a few statistics as to the