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“Be with you in a minute, Emma,” said T.A. And turned to his desk again. She rose and strolled toward the door, restlessly. “Don’t hurry.” Out in the showroom again she saw Fisk standing before a long table. He was ticketing and folding samples of petticoats, pajamas, blouses, and night-gowns. His cigar was gripped savagely between his teeth and his eyes squinted, half closed through the smoke.

She strolled over to him and fingered the cotton flannel of a garment that lay under her hand. “Spring samples?”

“Yes.”

“It ought to be a good trip. They say the West is dripping money, war or no war.”

“‘S right.”

“How’s Gertie?”

“Don’t get me started, Mrs. Buck. That girl!–say, I knew what she was when I married her, and so did you. She was head stenographer here long enough. But I never really knew that kid until now, and we’ve been married two years. You know what the last year has been for her; the baby and all. And then losing him. And do you know what she says! That if there was somebody who knew the Western territory and could cover it, she’d get a job and send me to war. Yessir! That’s Gert. We’ve been married two years, and she says herself it’s the first really happy time she’s ever known. You know what she had at home. Why, even when I was away on my long spring trip she used to say it wasn’t so bad being alone, because there was always my home-coming to count on. How’s that for a wife!”

“Gertie’s splendid,” agreed Emma. And wondered why it sounded so lame.

“You don’t know her. Why, when it comes to patriotism, she makes T.R. look like a pacifist. She says if she could sell my line on the road, she’d make you give her the job so she could send her man to war. Gert says a travelling man’s wife ought to make an ideal soldier’s wife, anyway; and that if I went it would only be like my long Western trip, multiplied by about ten, maybe. That’s Gertie.”

Emma was fingering the cotton-flannel garment on the table.

Buck crossed the room and stood beside her. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Three of the boys were called to-day. It crippled us pretty badly in the shipping room. Ready?”

“Yes. Good-night, Charley. Give my love to Gertie.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Buck.” He picked up his cigar, took an apprehensive puff and went on ticketing and folding. There was a grin behind the cigar now.

Into the late afternoon glitter of Fifth Avenue. Five o’clock Fifth Avenue. 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.”