o lay off the force. It'd serve 'em right to take
'em at their word for a while. But you simply can't fight a labor
union according to Queensbery rules, so I'll give 'em the raise and
put 'em on another ship."

"And the _Mamise_ will be idle and neglected for three months."

"Just about."

"The Germans couldn't have done much worse by her, could they?"

"Not much."

"I think I'll call it a day and go home," said Mamise.

"Better call it a quarter and go to New York or Palm Beach or
somewhere where there's a little gaiety."

"Are you sick of seeing me round?"

"Since you won't marry me--yes."

Mamise sniffed at this and set her little desk in order, aligned the
pencils in the tray, put the carbons back in the box and the rubber
cover on the typewriter. Then she sank it into its well and put on her
hat.

Davidge held her heavy coat for her and could not resist the
opportunity to fold her into his arms. Just as his arms closed about
her and he opened his lips to beg her not to desert him he saw over
her shoulder the door opening.

He had barely time to release her and pretend to be still holding her
coat when Miss Gabus entered. His elaborate guiltlessness confirmed
her bitterest suspicions, and she crossed the room to deposit a sheaf
of letters in Davidge's "in" basket and gather up the letters in his
"out" basket. She passed across the stage with an effect of absolute
refrigeration, like one of Richard III's ghosts.

Davidge was furious at Miss Gabus and himself. Mamise was furious at
them both--partly for the awkwardness of the incident, partly for the
failure of Davidge's enterprise against her lips.

When Miss Gabus was gone the ecstatic momentum was lost. Davidge
grumbled:

"Shall I see you to-morrow?"

"I don't know," said Mamise.

She gave him her hand. He pressed it in his two palms and shook his
head. She shook her head. They were both rebuking the bad behavior of
the fates.

Mamise trudged homeward--or at least houseward. She was in another of
her irresolute states, and irresolution is the most disappointing of
all the moods to the irresolute ones and all the neighbors. It was
irresolution that made "Hamlet" a five-act play, and only a
Shakespeare could have kept him endurable.

Mamise was becoming unendurable to herself. When she got to her
cottage she found it as dismal as an empty ice-box. When she had
started the fire going she had nothing else to do. In sheer
desperation she decide