“My boy’ll be home Wednesday,” she said, giving the dish back.

“Been in the Navy three-four years, ain’t he?”

Mrs. Egg sighed.  “April 14, 1917.  He was twenty-one las’ week, so he gets discharged soon as the fleet hits New York.  My gee, think of Dammy being twenty-one!”

She drove on, marvelling at time, and made her seventh stop at the moving-picture theatre.  The posters of the new feature film looked dull.  The heavily typed list of the current-events weekly took her sharp eye.  She read, “Rome Celebrates Anniversary—­Fleet Sails from Guantanamo,” and chuckled.  She must drive in to see the picture of the fleet.  She hadn’t time to stop now, as lunch would be ready.  Anyhow, night was the time for movies.  She drove on, and the brick business buildings gave out into a dribble of small frame cottages, mostly shabby.  Edith Webb was coming out of her father’s gate.

Mrs. Egg made an eighth halt and yelled, “Hey, Edie, Dammy’ll be home Wednesday night,” for the pleasure of seeing the pretty girl flush.  Adam had taken Edith to several dances at Christmas.  Mrs. Egg chuckled as the favoured virgin went red, fingering the top of the gatepost.  Edith would do.  In fact, Edith was suitable, entirely.

“Well, I’m glad,” the girl said.  “Oh, say, was it our house or the next one you used to live in?  Papa was wondering last night.”

“It was yours,” Mrs. Egg declared; “and thank your stars you’ve got a better father than I had, Edie.  Yes, right here’s where I lived when I was your age and helped Mamma do sewin’, and sometimes didn’t get enough to eat.  I wonder if that’s why—­well, anyhow, it’s a solid-built house.  I expect Dammy’ll call you up Wednesday night.”  She chuckled immensely and drove on again.

From the edge of town she passed steadily a quarter of a mile between her husband’s fields.  His cows were grazing in the pastures.  His apple trees were looking well.  The red paint of his monstrous water tanks soothed her by their brilliance.  A farmhand helped her out of the car and she took the shallow veranda steps one at a time, a little moody, wishing that her mother was still alive to see Adam’s glory.  However, there were six photographs of Adam about the green sitting room in various uniforms, and these cheered her moment of sorrow.  They weren’t altogether satisfactory.  His hard size didn’t show in single poses.  He looked merely beautiful.  Mrs. Egg sniffled happily, patting the view of Adam in white duck.  The enlarged snapshot portrayed him sitting astride a turret gun.  It was the best of the lot, although he looked taller in wrestling tights, but that picture worried her.  She had always been afraid that he might kill someone in a wrestling match.  She took the white-duck photograph to lunch and propped it against the pitcher of iced milk.