“Charnsworth, won’t you please stop ramping up and down like that!  My nerves are killing me.  I can’t help it if the war has done something or other to your business.  I’m sure no wife could have been more economical than I have.  Nothing matters but Eugene, anyway.  How could he do such a thing!  I’ve given my whole life to my children—­”

H. Charnsworth kicked the cushion again so that it struck the wall at the opposite side of the room.  Flora drew her breath in between her teeth as though a knife had entered her heart.

Adele still stood at the side of the bed, looking at her mother.  Her hands were clasped behind her, too.  In that moment, as she stood there, she resembled her mother and her father so startlingly and simultaneously that the two, had they been less absorbed in their own affairs, must have marked it.

The girl’s head came up, stiffly.  “Listen.  I’m going to marry Daniel Oakley.”

Daniel Oakley was fifty, and a friend of her father’s.  For years he had been coming to the house and for years she had ridiculed him.  She and Eugene had called him Sturdy Oak because he was always talking about his strength and endurance, his walks, his golf, his rugged health; pounding his chest meanwhile and planting his feet far apart.  He and Baldwin had had business relations as well as friendly ones.

At this announcement Flora screamed and sat up in bed.  H. Charnsworth stopped short in his pacing and regarded his daughter with a queer look; a concentrated look, as though what she had said had set in motion a whole maze of mental machinery within his brain.

“When did he ask you?”

“He’s asked me a dozen times.  But it’s different now.  All the men will be going to war.  There won’t be any left.  Look at England and France.  I’m not going to be left.”  She turned squarely toward her father, her young face set and hard.  “You know what I mean.  You know what I mean.”

Flora, sitting up in bed, was sobbing.  “I think you might have told your mother, Adele.  What are children coming to!  You stand there and say, ‘I’m going to marry Daniel Oakley.’  Oh, I am so faint ... all of a sudden ... get the spirits of ammonia....”

Adele turned and walked out of the room.  She was married six weeks later.  They had a regular pre-war wedding—­veil, flowers, dinner, and all.  Aunt Sophy arranged the folds of her gown and draped her veil.  The girl stood looking at herself in the mirror, a curious half-smile twisting her lips.  She seemed slighter and darker than ever.

“In all this white, and my veil, I look just like a fly in a quart of milk,” she said, with a laugh.  Then, suddenly, she turned to her aunt who stood behind her and clung to her, holding her tight, tight.  “I can’t!” she gasped.  “I can’t!  I can’t!”

Aunt Sophy held her off and looked at her, her eyes searching the girl.

“What do you mean, Della?  Are you just nervous or do you mean you don’t want to marry him?  Do you mean that?  Then what are you marrying for?  Tell me!  Tell your Aunt Sophy.”