s cell. None
of those wall pictures with which bachelor bedrooms are reputed to be
hung. No satin slippers. No scented notes. Two plain-backed military
brushes on the chiffonier (and he so nearly hairless!). A little
orderly stack of books on the table near the bed. Eva fingered their
titles and gave a little gasp. One of them was on gardening.

"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Stell. A book on the war, by an
Englishman. A detective story of the lurid type that lulls us to sleep.
His shoes ranged in a careful row in the closet, with a shoe tree in
every one of them. There was something speaking about them. They
looked so human. Eva shut the door on them quickly. Some bottles on
the dresser. A jar of pomade. An ointment such as a man uses who is
growing bald and is panic-stricken too late. An insurance calendar on
the wall. Some rhubarb-and-soda mixture on the shelf in the bathroom,
and a little box of pepsin tablets.

"Eats all kinds of things at all hours of the night," Eva said, and
wandered out into the rose-colored front room again with the air of one
who is chagrined at her failure to find what she has sought. Stell
followed her furtively.

"Where do you suppose he can be?" she demanded. "It's"--she glanced at
her wrist--"why, it's after six!"

And then there was a little click. The two women sat up, tense. The
door opened. Jo came in. He blinked a little. The two women in the
rosy room stood up.

"Why--Eve! Why, Babe! Well! Why didn't you let me know?"

"We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't coming home."

Jo came in slowly.

"I was in the jam on Michigan, watching the boys go by." He sat down,
heavily. The light from the window fell on him. And you saw that his
eyes were red.

He had found himself one of the thousands in the jam on Michigan
Avenue, as he said. He had a place near the curb, where his big frame
shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. He waited with the
placid interest of one who has subscribed to all the funds and
societies to which a prosperous, middle-aged businessman is called upon
to subscribe in war-time. Then, just as he was about to leave,
impatient at the delay, the crowd had cried, with a queer, dramatic,
exultant note in its voice, "Here they come! Here come the boys!"

Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists began to beat a
mad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. Jo tried to turn in the crowd,
all indignant