Mrs. Egg told the cook:  “Least said, soon’st mended, Sadie.  Give me the new cream.  I guess I might’s well make some spice cookies.  Be pretty busy Wednesday.  Dammy likes ’em a little stale.”

“Mis’ Egg,” said the cook, “if this was Dammy that’d kind of strayed off and come home sick in his old age——­”

“Give me the cream,” Mrs. Egg commanded, and was surprised by the fierceness of her own voice.  “I don’t need any help seein’ my duty, thanks!”

At six o’clock her duty became highly involved.  A friend telephoned from town that the current-events weekly at the moving-picture theatre showed Adam in the view of the dreadnoughts at Guantanamo.

“Get out,” said Adam’s mother.  “You’re jokin’! ...  Honest?  Well, it’s about time!  What’s he doin’? ...  Wrestlin’?  My!  Say, call up the theatre and tell Mr. Rubenstein to save me a box for the evenin’ show.”

“I hear your father’s come home,” the friend insinuated.

“Yes,” Mrs. Egg drawled, “and ain’t feelin’ well and don’t need comp’ny.  Be obliged if you’d tell folks that.  He’s kind of sickly.  So they’ve got Dammy in a picture.  It’s about time!” The tremor ran down her back.  She said “Good-night, dearie,” and rang off.

The old man was standing in the hall doorway, his head a vermilion ball in the crossed light of the red sunset.

“Feel better, Papa?”

“As good as I’m likely to feel in this world again.  You look real like your mother settin’ there, Myrtle.”  The whisper seemed likely to ripen as a sob.

Mrs. Egg answered, “Mamma had yellow hair and never weighed more’n a hundred and fifty pounds to the day of her death.  What’d you like for supper?”

He walked slowly along the room, his knees sagging, twitching from end to end.  She had forgotten how tall he was.  His face constantly wrinkled.  It was hard to see his eyes under their long lashes.  Mrs. Egg felt the pity of all this in a cold way.

She said, when he paused:  “That’s Adam, there, on the mantelpiece, Papa.  Six feet four and a half he is.  It don’t show in a picture.”

“The Navy’s rough kind of life, Myrtle.  I hope he ain’t picked up bad habits.  The world’s full of pitfalls.”

“Sure,” said Mrs. Egg, shearing the whisper.  “Only Dammy ain’t got any sense about cards.  I tried to teach him pinochle, but he never could remember none of it, and the hired men always clean him out shakin’ dice.  He can’t even beat his papa at checkers.  And that’s an awful thing to say of a bright boy!”

The old man stared at the photograph and his forehead smoothed for a breath.  Then he sighed and drooped his chin.

“If I’d stayed by right principles when I was young——­”

“D’you still keep a diary, Papa?”

“I did used to keep a diary, didn’t I?  I’d forgotten that.  When you come to my age, Myrtle, you’ll find yourself forgettin’ easy.  If I could remember any good things I ever did——­”