Ever since her home-coming Angie had been sewing at the Red Cross shop on Grand Avenue.  Chippewa boasted two Red Cross shops.  The Grand Avenue shop was the society shop.  The East-End crowd sewed there, capped, veiled, aproned—­and unapproachable.  Were your fingers ever so deft, your knowledge of seams and basting mathematical, your skill with that complicated garment known as a pneumonia jacket uncanny; if you did not belong to the East-End set, you did not sew at the Grand Avenue shop.  No matter how grossly red the blood which the Grand Avenue bandages and pads were ultimately to stanch, the liquid in the fingers that rolled and folded them was pure cerulean.

Tessie and her crowd had never thought of giving any such service to their country.  They spoke of the Grand Avenue workers as “that stinkin’ bunch,” I regret to say.  Yet each one of the girls was capable of starting a shirt waist in an emergency on Saturday night and finishing it in time for a Sunday picnic, buttonholes and all.  Their help might have been invaluable.  It never was asked.

* * * * *

Without warning Chuck came home on three days’ leave.  It meant that he was bound for France right enough this time.  But Tessie didn’t care.

“I don’t care where you’re goin’,” she said, exultantly, her eyes lingering on the stocky, straight, powerful figure in its rather ill-fitting khaki.  “You’re here now.  That’s enough.  Ain’t you tickled to be home, Chuck?  Gee!”

“I sh’d say,” responded Chuck.  But even he seemed to detect some lack in his tone and words.  He elaborated somewhat shamefacedly:  “Sure.  It’s swell to be home.  But I don’t know.  After you’ve travelled around, and come back, things look so kind of little to you.  I don’t know—­kind of—­” he floundered about at a loss for expression.  Then tried again:  “Now, take Hatton’s place, f’r example.  I always used to think it was a regular palace, but, gosh, you ought to see places where I was asked in San Francisco and around there.  Why, they was—­were—­enough to make the Hatton house look like a shack.  Swimmin’ pools of white marble, and acres of yard like a park, and a Jap help always bringin’ you something to eat or drink.  And the folks themselves—­why, say!  Here we are scrapin’ and bowin’ to Hattons and that bunch.  They’re pikers to what some people are that invited me to their houses in New York and Berkeley, and treated me and the other guys like kings or something.  Take Megan’s store, too”—­he was warming to his subject, so that he failed to notice the darkening of Tessie’s face—­“it’s a joke compared to New York and San Francisco stores.  Reg’lar rube joint.”

Tessie stiffened.  Her teeth were set, her eyes sparkled.  She tossed her head.  “Well, I’m sure, Mr. Mory, it’s good enough for me.  Too bad you had to come home at all now you’re so elegant and swell, and everything.  You better go call on Angie Hatton instead of wastin’ time on me.  She’d probably be tickled to see you.”