able
women. Where's my son!" Then, as they huddled together, frightened,
wild-eyed.

"Out of my house! Out of my house! Before I hurt you!"

They fled, terrified. The door banged behind them.

Jo stood, shaking, in the center of the room. Then he reached for a
chair, gropingly, and sat down. He passed one moist, flabby hand over
his forehead and it came away wet. The telephone rang. He sat still.
It sounded far away and unimportant, like something forgotten. But it
rang and rang insistently. Jo liked to answer his telephone when he
was at home.

"Hello!" He knew instantly the voice at the other end.

"That you, Jo?" it said.

"Yes."

"How's my boy?"

"I'm--all right."

"Listen, Jo. The crowd's coming over tonight. I've fixed up a little
poker game for you. Just eight of us."

"I can't come tonight, Gert."

"Can't! Why not?"

"I'm not feeling so good."

"You just said you were all right."

"I AM all right. Just kind of tired."

The voice took on a cooing note. "Is my Joey tired? Then he shall be
all comfy on the sofa, and he doesn't need to play if he don't want to.
No, sir."

Jo stood staring at the black mouthpiece of the telephone. He was
seeing a procession go marching by. Boys, hundreds of boys, in khaki.

"Hello! Hello!" The voice took on an anxious note. "Are you there?"

"Yes," wearily.

"Jo, there's something the matter. You're sick. I'm coming right
over."

"No!" "Why not? You sound as if you'd been sleeping. Look here----"

"Leave me alone!" cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver clacked onto the
hook. "Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Long after the connection
had been broken.

He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. Then he turned
and walked into the front room. All the light had gone out of it.
Dusk had come on. All the light had gone out of everything. The zest
had gone out of life. The game was over--the game he had been playing
against loneliness and disappointment. And he was just a tired old
man. A lonely, tired old man in a ridiculous rose-colored room that
had grown, all of a sudden, drab {sic}

That's Marriage [1917]

Theresa Platt (she had been Terry Sheehan) watched her husband across
the breakfast table with eyes that smoldered. But Orville Platt was
quite unaware of any smoldering in progress. He was occupied with his
eggs. How could he know that these very eggs were feeding the dull red
menace in Ter