She meant to ask an explanation of the clenched fingers; but the Serbians, despite their four tragic years, turned out to be as sprightly as their uniforms, and it was past midnight when the Fannings dropped her at her door.  Her husband was rather ostentatiously asleep.  As she doffed her warlike garments, her feminine canniness warned her that this was no time for explanations.  Tomorrow morning would be better.

But next morning’s breakfast turned out to be all Jock.

A letter from Grace, his wife.  Grace McChesney had been Grace Gait, one of the youngest and cleverest women advertising writers in the profession.  When Jock was a cub in the Raynor office she had been turning out compelling copy.  They had been married four years.  Now Jock ruled a mahogany domain of his own in the Raynor suite overlooking the lake in the great Michigan Avenue building.  And Grace was saying, “Eat the crust, girlie.  It’s the crust that makes your hair grow curly.”

Emma, uniformed for work, read hasty extracts from Grace’s letter.  Buck listened in silence.

“You wouldn’t know Jock.  He’s restless, irritable, moody.  And the queer part of it is he doesn’t know it.  He tries to be cheerful, and I could weep to see him.  He has tried to cover it up with every kind of war work from Red Crossing to Liberty Loaning, and from writing free full-page national advertising copy to giving up his tobacco money to the smoke fund.  And he’s miserable.  He wants to get into it.  And he ought.  But you know I haven’t been really husky since Buddy came.  Not ill, but the doctor says it will be another six months before I’m myself, really.  If I had only myself to think of—­how simple!  But two kiddies need such a lot of things.  I could get a job at Raynor’s.  They need writers.  Jock says, bitterly, that all the worth-while men have left.  Don’t think I’m complaining.  I’m just trying to see my way clear, and talking to someone who understands often clears the way.”

“Well!” said Emma.

And, “Well?” said T.A.

She sat fingering the letter, her breakfast cooling before her.  “Of course, Jock wants to get into it.  I wish he could.  I’d be so proud of him.  He’d be beautiful in khaki.  But there’s work to do right here.  And he ought to be willing to wait six months.”

“They can’t wait six months over there, Emma.  They need him now.”

“Oh, come, T.A.!  One man—­”

“Multiplied by a million.  Look at Fisk.  Just such another case.  Look at—­”

The shrill summons of the telephone cut him short.  Emma’s head came up alertly.  She glanced at her wrist-watch and gave a little exclamation of horror.

“That’s for me!  I’m half an hour late!  The first time, too.”  She was at the telephone a second later, explanatory, apologetic.  Then back in the dining-room doorway, her cheeks flushed, tugging at her gloves, poised for flight.  “Sorry, dear.  But this morning was so important, and that letter about Jock upset me.  I’m afraid I’m a rotten soldier.”