oung frame, will
it?"

"All right," Eva had retorted. "If you're not man enough to stop it,
I'll have to, that's all. I'm going up there with Stell this week."

They did not notify Jo of their coming. Eva telephoned his apartment
when she knew he would be out, and asked his man if he expected his
master home to dinner that evening. The man had said yes. Eva
arranged to meet Stell in town. They would drive to Jo's apartment
together, and wait for him there.

When she reached the city Eva found turmoil there. The first of the
American troops to be sent to France were leaving. Michigan Boulevard
was a billowing, surging mass: flags, pennants, banners, crowds. All
the elements that make for demonstration. And over the whole-quiet. No
holiday crowd, this. A solid, determined mass of people waiting
patient hours to see the khaki-clads go by. Three years had brought
them to a clear knowledge of what these boys were going to.

"Isn't it dreadful!" Stell gasped.

"Nicky Overton's too young, thank goodness."

Their car was caught in the jam. When they moved at all, it was by
inches. When at last they reached Jo's apartment they were flushed,
nervous, apprehensive. But he had not yet come in. So they waited.

No, they were not staying to dinner with their brother, they told the
relieved houseman.

Stell and Eva, sunk in rose-colored cushions, viewed the place with
disgust and some mirth. They rather avoided each other's eyes.

"Carrie ought to be here," Eva said. They both smiled at the thought
of the austere Carrie in the midst of those rosy cushions, and
hangings, and lamps. Stell rose and began to walk about restlessly.
She picked up a vase and laid it down; straightened a picture. Eva got
up, too, and wandered into the hall. She stood there a moment,
listening. Then she turned and passed into Jo's bedroom, Stell
following. And there you knew Jo for what he was.

This room was as bare as the other had been ornate. It was Jo, the
clean-minded and simplehearted, in revolt against the cloying luxury
with which he had surrounded himself. The bedroom, of all rooms in any
house, reflects the personality of its occupant. True, the actual
furniture was paneled, cupid-surmounted, and ridiculous. It had been
the fruit of Jo's first orgy of the senses. But now it stood out in
that stark little room with an air as incongruous and ashamed as that
of a pink tarlatan danseuse who finds herself in a monk'