Hinpoha gave an impatient jerk and the knitting fell into her lap with a protesting tinkle of needles, while the stitch which she was in the act of transferring slipped off and darted merrily away on an excursion up the length of the sock.  Hinpoha threw up her hands in exasperation.

“That’s the third time that’s happened in an hour!” she exclaimed in a vexed tone.  “I hope the soldiers appreciate how much trouble it is to keep their feet covered.  I’d rather fight any day than knit,” she finished emphatically.

“Here, let me pick up the dropped stitches for you,” said Migwan soothingly, reaching over for the tangled mess of yarn.  “You’re getting all tired and hot,” she continued, skilfully pursuing the agile and elusive dropped stitches down the grey woolen wake of the sock and bringing them triumphantly up to resume their place in the sun.

“It takes me an age to get a pair of socks done for the Red Cross,” Hinpoha grumbled on, “and they’re as cross as two sticks if you drop a single stitch!  That woman down at headquarters made the biggest fuss about the last pair I brought in, just because I’d slipped a stitch in the wrong place—­it hardly showed a bit—­and because one sock was an inch longer than the other.  War isn’t a bit like I thought it would be,” she sighed plaintively, with a vengeful poke at the knitting, which Migwan had just restored to her.

Poor romantic Hinpoha, trying to sail her ship of rosy fancies on a sea of stern reality, and finding it pretty hard sailing!  Leaning back against the green plush of the train seat, which set off like an artist’s background the burnished glory of her red curls, and dreaming regretfully of the vanished days when chivalry rode on fiery steeds and ladies fair led much more eventful lives than their emancipated great-granddaughters, it never occurred to her—­nor to the rest of the Winnebagos either, for that matter—­that romance might have become up to date along with science and the fashions, and that in these modern days of speed and efficiency High Adventure might purchase a ticket at the station window and go faring forth in a Pullman car.  So Hinpoha dreamed dreams of the way she would like things to happen and built airy castles around the Winnebagos as heroines; but little did she suspect that another architect was also at work on those same castles, an architect whose lines are drawn with an indelible pencil, and whose finished work no man may reject.

Hinpoha did not resume her knitting again.  She opened her hand bag and drew forth her mirror, and propping it up against her knee, proceeded to arrange the curls that had escaped from their imprisoning pins and were riding around her ears.  Then she put the mirror back and drew out a bottle of hand lotion and examined the stopper.  She slipped it in and out several times and then idly dropped a few violet petals from the bunch at her belt into the bottle, shaking it about to make them whirl, and then holding it still to watch them settle.