number of hundreds of
thousands of soldiers we've canteened since last June, I'd be pleased to
oblige." She tugged at a capacious pocket and brought forth a smart
leather-bound notebook.

"Spare me! I've had all the statistics I can stand for one day at the
office. I know you're working hard. I just wondered if you didn't
realize--"

They turned into their own street. "Realize what?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

Emma sighed a mock sigh and glanced up at the windows of her own house.
"Oh, well, everybody's difficult these days, T.A., including husbands.
That second window shade is crooked. Isn't it queer how maids never
do.... I'll tell you what I can realize, though. I realize that we're
going to have dinner at home, reg'lar old-fashioned befo'-de-war. And I
can bathe before dinner. There's richness."

But when she appeared at dinner, glowing, radiant, her hair shiningly
re-coifed, she again wore the blue uniform, with the service cap atop
her head. Buck surveyed her, unsmiling. She seated herself at table with
a little clinking of buckles and buttons. She flung her motor gloves on
a near-by chair, ran an inquiring finger along belt and collar with a
little gesture that was absurdly feminine in its imitation of
masculinity. Buck did not sit down. He stood at the opposite side of the
table, one hand on his chair, the knuckles showing white where he
gripped it.

"It seems to me, Emma, that you might manage to wear something a little
less military when you're dining at home. War is war, but I don't see
why you should make me feel like your orderly. It's like being married
to a policewoman. Surely you can neglect your country for the length of
time it takes to dine with your husband."

It was the bitterest speech he had made to her in the years of their
married life. She flushed a little. "I thought you knew that I was going
out again immediately after dinner. I left at five with the
understanding that I'd be on duty again at 8.30."

He said nothing. He stood looking down at his own hand that gripped the
chair back so tightly. Emma sat back and surveyed her trim and tailored
self with a placidity that had in it, perhaps, a dash of malice. His
last speech had cut. Then she reached forward, helped herself to an
olive, and nibbled it, head on one side.

"D'you know, T.A., what I think? H'm? I think you're jealous of your
wife's uniform."

She had touched the match to the dynamite.

He looked up. At the blaze in his ey