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And suddenly he sat down, heavily, and covered his eyes with his hands.

Emma sat staring at him for a dull, sickening moment. Then she looked down at herself, horror in her eyes. Then up again at him. She got up and came over to him.

“Why, dear–dearest–I didn’t know. I thought you were satisfied. I thought you were happy. You–“

“Honey, the only man who’s happy is the man in khaki. The rest of us are gritting our teeth and pretending.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “But what do you want–what can you do that–“

He reached back over his shoulder and found her hand. He straightened. His head came up. “They’ve offered me a job in Bordeaux. It isn’t a fancy job. It has to do with merchandising. But I think you know they’re having a devil of a time with all the millions of bales of goods. They need men who know materials. I ought to. I’ve handled cloth and clothes enough. I know values. It would mean hard work–manual work lots of times. No pay. And happiness. For me.” There was a silence. It seemed to fill the room, that silence. It filled the house. It roared and thundered about Emma’s ears, that silence. When finally she broke it:

“Blind!” she said. “Blind! Deaf! Dumb! And crazy.” She laughed, and two tears sped down her cheeks and dropped on the unblemished blue serge uniform. “Oh, T.A.! Where have I been? How you must have despised me. Me, in my uniform. In my uniform that was costing the Government three strapping men. My uniform, that was keeping three man-size soldiers out of khaki. You, Jock, and Fisk. Why didn’t you tell me, dear! Why didn’t you tell me!”

“I’ve tried. I couldn’t. You’ve always seen things first. I couldn’t ask you to go back to the factory.”

“Factory! Factory nothing! I’m going back on the road. I’m taking Fisk’s Western territory. I know the Middle West better than Fisk himself. I ought to. I covered it for ten years. I’ll pay Gertie Fisk’s salary until she’s able to come back to us as stenographer. We’ve never had one so good. Grace can give the office a few hours a week. And we can promote O’Brien to manager while I’m on the road.”

Buck was staring at her, dully. “Grace? Now wait a minute. You’re travelling too fast for a mere man.” His hand was gripping hers, tight, tight.

Their dinner was cooling on the table. They ignored it. She pulled a chair around to his. They sat shoulder to shoulder, elbows on the cloth.

“It took me long enough to wake up, didn’t it? I’ve got to make up for lost time. The whole thing’s clear in my mind. Now get this: Jock gets a commission. Grace and the babies pack up and come to New York, and live right here, with me, in this house. Fisk goes to war. Gertie gets well and comes back to work for Featherlooms. Mr. T.A. Buck goes to Bordeaux. Old Emmer takes off her uniform and begins to serve her country–on the road.”

At that he got up and began pacing the room. “I can’t have you do that, dear. Why, you left all that behind when you married me.”

“Yes, but our marriage certificate didn’t carry a war guarantee.”

“Gad, Emma, you’re glorious!”

“Glorious nothing! I’m going to earn the living for three families for a few months, until things get going. And there’s nothing glorious about that, old dear. I haven’t any illusions about what taking a line on the road means these days. It isn’t travelling. It’s exploring. You never know where you’re going to land, or when, unless you’re travelling in a freight train. They’re cock o’ the walk now. I think I’ll check myself through as first-class freight. Or send my pack ahead, with natives on foot, like an African explorer. But it’ll be awfully good for me character. And when I’m eating that criminal corn bread they serve on dining cars on a train that’s seven hours late into Duluth I’ll remember when I had my picture, in uniform, in the Sunday supplements, with my hand on the steering wheel along o’ the nobility and gentry.”