g.
"Not at all," he assured her and wondered to what she referred.

"It was at the American Legion Ball," she reminded him.

And then he remembered. It all came back to him. It had been a dismal
evening, way back in April. He had noticed her that evening. She had
worn a weird thing of silver and black. She had even sat beside him on
a sofa by the door--she and her partner. But he had not met her; he
was sure of that. He had remarked, he remembered now, how curiously
alert her eyes were, how alive, taking everything in.

"You were in uniform," she continued.

"Yes," he replied. Nearly every man present had been.

For a few moments silence. Then reaching Broadway and less traffic
they rolled along a little more easily, with less tension.

"I'm Myrtle Macomber," she at length essayed. "In case you had
forgotten."

Joe grinned. Then he turned to her, "And my name's Hooper."

She gave him another one of her roguish glances through her lashes.

"I was trying to remember," she laughed.

Then he asked her the way home and she told him. After that she
chatted more freely, made comments on some of the people they passed.
The evening had turned out fine. Broad orange pennons streamed out of
the west. The little fountain in the city park tinkled delightfully as
they passed.

"It's a pretty car," she said once; "so roomy and comfortable."

He made no reply and wondered if his silence were reprehensible.

Under her direction they turned into a quiet side street and stopped
before a grayish frame house with a fancy bulbous tower at one corner
and bilious green outside shutters. A woman was stooped over a flower
bed in the centre of the yard. She arose stiffly at their approach.

Miss Macomber turned to Joe, but he had already alighted from the car
and gone around to help her out. As he held the door open for her she
seemed a bit distrait. Slowly they walked across the pavement to the
gate. The woman in the yard came forward to meet them.

There was a moment's pause. And then: "This is Mr. Hooper, mama."

The woman gave him an appraising look, glanced at the car, then smiled
and held out her hand. It was damp and flabby.

"Please excuse my appearance, Mr. Hooper," she smirked. "I was getting
some flowers for the table, dearie," she added to the girl.

Joe wondered vaguely at the contrast. Here was another of nature's
paradoxes. Mrs. Macomber looked worn and quite untidy. She was fat;
her figure looked as though it