From time to time, when they were working together, Mrs. Wheeler told Mahailey what she knew about the customs of the Chinese.  The old woman had never had two impersonal interests at the same time before, and she scarcely knew what to do with them.  She would murmur on, half to Claude and half to herself:  “They ain’t fightin’ over there where Miss Enid is, is they?  An’ she won’t have to wear their kind of clothes, cause she’s a white woman.  She won’t let ’em kill their girl babies nor do such awful things like they always have, an’ she won’t let ’em pray to them stone iboles, cause they can’t help ’em none.  I ’spect Miss Enid’ll do a heap of good, all the time.”

Behind her diplomatic monologues, however, Mahailey had her own ideas, and she was greatly scandalized at Enid’s departure.  She was afraid people would say that Claude’s wife had “run off an’ lef’ him,” and in the Virginia mountains, where her social standards had been formed, a husband or wife thus deserted was the object of boisterous ridicule.  She once stopped Mrs. Wheeler in a dark corner of the cellar to whisper, “Mr. Claude’s wife ain’t goin’ to stay off there, like her sister, is she?”

If one of the Yoeder boys or Susie Dawson happened to be at the Wheelers’ for dinner, Mahailey never failed to refer to Enid in a loud voice.  “Mr. Claude’s wife, she cuts her potatoes up raw in the pan an’ fries ’em.  She don’t boil ’em first like I do.  I know she’s an awful good cook, I know she is.”  She felt that easy references to the absent wife made things look better.

Ernest Havel came to see Claude now, but not often.  They both felt it would be indelicate to renew their former intimacy.  Ernest still felt aggrieved about his beer, as if Enid had snatched the tankard from his lips with her own corrective hand.  Like Leonard, he believed that Claude had made a bad bargain in matrimony; but instead of feeling sorry for him, Ernest wanted to see him convinced and punished.  When he married Enid, Claude had been false to liberal principles, and it was only right that he should pay for his apostasy.  The very first time he came to spend an evening at the Wheelers’ after Claude came home to live, Ernest undertook to explain his objections to Prohibition.  Claude shrugged his shoulders.

“Why not drop it?  It’s a matter that doesn’t interest me, one way or the other.”

Ernest was offended and did not come back for nearly a month—­not, indeed, until the announcement that Germany would resume unrestricted submarine warfare made every one look questioningly at his neighbour.

He walked into the Wheelers’ kitchen the night after this news reached the farming country, and found Claude and his mother sitting at the table, reading the papers aloud to each other in snatches.  Ernest had scarcely taken a seat when the telephone bell rang.  Claude answered the call.

“It’s the telegraph operator at Frankfort,” he said, as he hung up the receiver.  “He repeated a message from Father, sent from Wray:  ‘Will be home day after tomorrow.  Read the papers.’  What does he mean?  What does he suppose we are doing?”