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“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 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 eyes she shrank back a little. His face was white. He was breathing quickly.

“You’re right! I am. I am jealous. I’m jealous of every buck private in the army! I’m jealous of the mule drivers! Of the veterinarians. Of the stokers in the transports. Men!” He doubled his hand into a fist. His fine eyes glowed. “Men!”