it performed?"

"Getting it performed, nothing. Getting it suppressed. That a long line
of generals and admirals should wind up in a composer is to her a
disgrace which will need a great deal of living down. It preys on her
mind. Poor old Stuart is home now reading her choice passages from the
_Winning of the West_ by Theodore Roosevelt to soothe her nerves."

I had been more than a little apprehensive of meeting Mama again, but
Winifred's report seemed to reassure me that she would be confined, if
not to bed, at least to her own apartments. I was sadly disillusioned to
find her ensconced in a comfortable armchair beside a brightly burning
fire, the general with a book held open by his thumb. He greeted me with
his usual affection. "Albert, I'm sorry I wasnt able to get to the
airport."

I shook his hand and turned to his wife. "I regret to hear you are
indisposed, Mrs Thario."

"Spare me your damned crocodile tears. Where is my son?"

"In his last letter he suggested he would remain in our country as long
as it existed; however it is possible--even probable he escaped. Let us
hope so, Mrs Thario."

"That's the sort of damned hogwash you feed to green troops, not to
veterans. My son is dead. In action. My grandfather went the same way at
Chancellorsville. Do you think me some whimpering broompusher to weep at
the loss of a son on the battlefield?"

Stuart Thario put his hand on her arm. "Easy ... bloodpressure ... no
excitement."

"Not in regimentals," said Mama, and relapsed into silence.

We had a very uneasy dinner, during which we were unable to discuss
business owing to the presence of the ladies. Afterward the general and
I withdrew with our coffee--he did not drink at home, so I missed the
clarity which always accompanied his indulgence--and were deep in
figures and calculations when Winifred summoned us hastily.

"General, Mr Weener, come quickly! Mama ..."

We hurried into the living room, I for one anticipating Mama if not in
the throes of a stroke at least in a faint. But she was standing upright
before the open fire, an unsheathed cavalry saber in her hand. It was
clearly a family relic, for from its guard dangled the golden tassel of
the United States Army and on its naked blade were little spots of rust,
but it looked dangerous enough as she warned us off with a sweep of it.
In her other hand I recognized the bulky manuscript of George Thario's
First Symphony which she was burning, page by pa