In the days when she had been Mrs. Emma McChesney, travelling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York, her perusal5 of the morning's news had been, perforce, a hasty process, accomplished6 between trains, or in a small-town hotel 'bus, jolting7 its way to the depot8 for the 7.52; or over an American-plan breakfast throughout which seven eighths of her mind was intent on the purchasing possibilities of a prospective9 nine o'clock skirt buyer. There was no need now of haste, but the habit of years still clung. From eight-thirty to eight thirty-five A.M. Emma McChesney Buck was always in partial eclipse behind the billowing pages of her newspaper. Only the tip of her topmost coil of bright hair was visible. She read swiftly, darting10 from war news to health hints, from stock market to sport page, and finding something of interest in each. For her there was nothing cryptic11 in a headline such as "Rudie Slams One Home"; and Do pfd followed by dotted lines and vulgar fractions were to her as easily translated as the Daily Hint From Paris. Hers was the photographic eye and the alert brain that can film a column or a page at a glance.
Across the table her husband sat turned slightly sidewise in his chair, his paper folded in a tidy oblong. He read down one column, top of the next and down that, seriously and methodically; giving to toast or coffee-cup the single-handed and groping attention of one whose interest is elsewhere. The light from the big bay window fell on the printed page and cameoed his profile. After three years of daily contact with it, Emma still caught herself occasionally gazing with appreciation12 at that clear-cut profile and the clean, shining line of his hair as it grew away from the temple.
"T.A.," she had announced one morning, to his mystification, "you're the Francis X. Bushman of the breakfast table. I believe you sit that way purposely."
"Francis X—?" He was not a follower13 of the films.
Emma elucidated14. "Discoverer and world's champion exponent15 of the side face."
"I might punish you, Emma, by making a pun about its all being Greek to me, but I shan't." He returned to Page Two, Column Four.
Usually their conversation was comfortably monosyllabic and disjointed, as is the breakfast talk of two people who understand each other. Amicable16 silence was the rule, broken only by the rustle17 of paper, the clink of china, an occasional, "Toast, dear?" And when Buck, in a low, vibrating tone (slightly muffled18 by buttered corn muffin) said, "Dogs!" Emma knew he was pursuing the daily schrecklichkeit.
Upon this cozy19 scene Conservation cast his gaunt shadow. It was in June, the year of America's Great Step, that Emma, examining her household, pronounced it fattily degenerate20, with complications, and performed upon it a severe and skilful21 surgical22 operation. Among the rest:
"One morning paper ought to be enough for any husband and wife who aren't living on a Boffin basis. There'll be one copy of the Times delivered at this house in the future, Mr. Buck. We might match pennies for it, mornings."
It lay there on the hall table that first morning, an innocent oblong, its headlines staring up at them with inky eyes.
"Paper, T.A.," she said, and handed it to him.
"You take it, dear."
"Oh, no! No."
She poured the coffee, trying to keep her gaze away from the tantalizing23 tail-end of the headline at whose first half she could only guess.
"By Jove, Emma! Listen to this! Pershing says if we have one m—"
"Stop right there! We've become pretty well acquainted in the last three years, T.A. But if you haven't learned that if there's one thing I can't endure, it's being fed across the table with scraps24 of the day's news, I shall have to consider our marriage a failure."
"Oh, very well. I merely thought you'd be—"
"I am. But there's something about having it read to you—"
On the second morning Emma, hurriedly fastening the middle button of her blouse on her way downstairs, collided with her husband, who was shrugging himself into his coat. They continued their way downstairs with considerable dignity and pronounced leisure. The paper lay on the hall table. They reached for it. There was a moment—just the fraction of a minute—when each clutched a corner of it, eying the other grimly. Then both let go suddenly, as though the paper had burned their fingers. They stared at each other, surprise and horror in their gaze. The paper fell to the floor with a little slap. Both stooped for it, apologetically. Their heads bumped. They staggered back, semi-stunned.
Emma found herself laughing, rather wildly. Buck joined in after a moment—a rueful laugh. She was the first to recover.
"That settles it. I'm willing to eat trick bread and whale meat and drink sugarless coffee, but I draw the line at hating my husband for the price of a newspaper subscription26. White paper may be scarce but so are husbands. It's cheaper to get two newspapers than to set up two establishments."
They were only two among many millions who, at that time, were playing an amusing and fashionable game called Win the War. They did not realize that the game was to develop into a grim and magnificently functioning business to whose demands they would cheerfully sacrifice all that they most treasured.
Of late, Emma had spent less and less time in the offices of the Featherloom Company. For more than ten years that flourishing business, and the career of her son, Jock McChesney, had been the twin orbits about which her existence had revolved27. But Jock McChesney was a man of family now, with a wife, two babies, and an uncanny advertising28 sense that threatened to put his name on the letterhead of the Raynor Advertising Company of Chicago. As for the Featherloom factory—it seemed to go of its own momentum29. After her marriage to the firm's head, Emma's interest in the business was unflagging.
"Now look here, Emma," Buck would say. "You've given enough to this firm. Play a while. Cut up. Forget you're the 'And Company' in T.A. Buck & Co."
"But I'm so used to it. I'd miss it so. You know what happened that first year of our marriage when I tried to do the duchess. I don't know how to loll. If you take Featherlooms away from me I'll degenerate into a Madam Chairman. You'll see."
She might have, too, if the War had not come along and saved her.
By midsummer the workrooms were turning out strange garments, such as gray and khaki flannel30 shirts, flannelette one-piece pajamas31, and woollen bloomers, all intended for the needs of women war workers going abroad.
Emma had dropped into the workroom one day and had picked up a half-finished gray flannel garment. She eyed it critically, her deft32 fingers manipulating the neckband. A little frown gathered between her eyes.
"Somehow a woman in a flannel shirt always looks as if she had quinsy. It's the collar. They cut them like a man's small-size. But a woman's neck is as different from a man's as her collarbone is."
She picked up a piece of flannel and smoothed it on the cutting-table. The head designer had looked on in disapproval33 while her employer's wife had experimented with scraps of cloth, and pins, and chalk, and scissors. But Emma had gone on serenely34 cutting and snipping35 and pinning. They made up samples of service shirts with the new neck-hugging collar and submitted them to Miss Nevins, the head of the woman's uniform department at Fyfe & Gordon's. That astute36 lady had been obliged to listen to scores of canteeners, nurses, secretaries, and motor leaguers who, standing37 before a long mirror in one of the many fitting-rooms, had gazed, frowned, fumbled38 at collar and topmost button, and said, "But it looks so—so lumpy around the neck."
Miss Kate Nevins's reply to this plaint was: "Oh, when you get your tie on—"
"Perhaps they'll let me wear a turn-down collar."
"Absolutely against regulations. The rules strictly39 forbid anything but the high, close-fitting collar."
The fair war worker would sigh, mutter something about supposing they'd shoot you at sunrise for wearing a becoming shirt, and order six, grumbling40.
Kate Nevins had known Mrs. T.A. Buck in that lady's Emma McChesney days. At the end of the first day's trial of the new Featherloom shirt she had telephoned the Featherloom factory and had asked for Emma McChesney. People who had known her by that name never seemed able to get the trick of calling her by any other.
With every fitting-room in the Fyfe & Gordon establishment demanding her attention, Miss Nevins's conversation was necessarily brief. "Emma McChesney?... Kate Nevins.... Who's responsible for the collar on those Featherloom shirts?... I was sure of it.... No regular designer could cut a collar like that. Takes a genius.... H'm?... Well, I mean it. I'm going to write to Washington and have 'em vote you a distinguished41 service medal. This is the first day since last I-don't-know-when that hasn't found me in the last stages of nervous exhaustion42 at six o'clock.... All these women warriors43 are willing to bleed and die for their country, but they want to do it in a collar that fits, and I don't blame 'em. After I saw the pictures of that Russian Battalion47 of Death, I understood why.... Yes, I know I oughtn't to say that, but...."
By autumn Emma was wearing one of those Featherloom service shirts herself. It was inevitable48 that a woman of her executive ability, initiative, and detail sense should be pressed into active service. November saw Fifth Avenue a-glitter with uniforms, and one third of them seemed to be petticoated. The Featherloom factory saw little of Emma now. She bore the title of Commandant with feminine captains, lieutenants49, and girl workers under her; and her blue uniform, as she herself put it, was so a-jingle with straps51, buckles52, belts, bars, and bolts that when she first put it on she felt like a jail.
She left the house at eight in the morning now. Dinner time rarely found her back in Sixty-third Street. Buck was devoting four evenings a week to the draft board. At the time of the second Liberty Loan drive in the autumn he had deserted53 Featherlooms for bonds. His success was due to the commodity he had for sale, the type of person to whom he sold it, and his own selling methods and personality. There was something about this slim, leisurely54 man, with the handsome eyes and the quiet voice, that convinced and impressed you.
"It's your complete lack of eagerness in the transaction, too," Emma remarked after watching him land a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bond pledge, the buyer a business rival of the Featherloom Petticoat Company. "You make it seem a privilege, not a favour. A man with your method could sell sandbags in the Sahara."
Sometimes the two dined downtown together. Sometimes they scarcely saw each other for days on end. One afternoon at 5.30, Emma, on duty bound, espied56 him walking home up Fifth Avenue, on the opposite side of the street. She felt a little pang57 as she watched the easy, graceful58 figure swinging its way up the brilliant, flag-decked avenue. She had given him so little time and thought; she had bestowed59 upon the house such scant60 attention in the last few weeks. She turned abruptly61 and crossed the street, dodging62 the late afternoon traffic with a sort of expert recklessness. She almost ran after the tall figure that was now a block ahead of her, and walking fast. She caught up with him, matched his stride, and touched his arm lightly.
"I beg your pardon, but aren't you Mr. T.A. Buck?"
"Yes."
"How do you do! I'm Mrs. Buck."
Then they had giggled63 together, deliciously, and he had put a firm hand on the smartly tailored blue serge sleeve.
"I thought so. That being the case, you're coming home along o' me, young 'ooman."
"Can't do it. I'm on my way to the Ritz to meet a dashing delegation64 from Serbia. You never saw such gorgeous creatures. All gold and green and red, with swords, and snake-work, and glittering boots. They'd make a musical-comedy soldier look like an undertaker."
There came a queer little look into his eyes. "But this isn't a musical comedy, dear. These men are—Look here, Emma. I want to talk to you. Let's walk home together and have dinner decently in our own dining room. There are things at the office—"
"S'impossible, Mr. Buck. I'm late now. And you know perfectly65 well there are two vice-commandants ready to snatch my shoulder-straps."
"Emma! Emma!"
At his tone the smiling animation66 of her face was dimmed. "What's gone wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything. At least, nothing that I can discuss with you at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street. When does this Serbian thing end? I'll call for you."
"There's no telling. Anyway, the Fannings will drive me home, thanks, dear."
He looked down at her. She was unbelievably girlish and distingué in the blue uniform; a straight, slim figure, topped by an impudent67 cocked hat. The flannel shirt of workaday service was replaced to-day by a severely68 smart affair of white silk, high-collared, stitched, expensively simple. And yet he frowned as he looked.
"Fisk got his exemption69 papers to-day." With apparent irrelevance70.
"Yes?" She was glancing sharply up and down the thronged71 street. "Better call me a cab, dear. I'm awfully72 late. Oh, well, with his wife practically an invalid73, and all the expense of the baby's illness, and the funeral—The Ritz, dear. And tell him to hurry." She stepped into the cab, a little nervous frown between her eyes.
But Buck, standing at the curb74, seemed bent75 on delaying her. "Fisk told me the doctor said all she needs is a couple of months at a sanitarium, where she can be bathed and massaged76 and fed with milk. And if Fisk could go to a camp now he'd have a commission in no time. He's had training, you know. He spent his vacation last summer at Plattsburg."
"But he's due on his advance spring trip in two or three weeks, isn't he?... I really must hurry, T.A."
"Ritz," said Buck, shortly, to the chauffeur78. "And hurry." He turned away abruptly, without a backward glance. Emma's head jerked over her shoulder in surprise. But he did not turn. The tall figure disappeared. Emma's taxi crept into the stream. But uppermost in her mind was not the thought of Serbians, uniforms, Fisk, or Ritz, but of her husband's right hand, which, as he turned away from the cab, had been folded tight into a fist.
She meant to ask an explanation of the clenched79 fingers; but the Serbians, despite their four tragic80 years, turned out to be as sprightly81 as their uniforms, and it was past midnight when the Fannings dropped her at her door. Her husband was rather ostentatiously asleep. As she doffed82 her warlike garments, her feminine canniness83 warned her that this was no time for explanations. Tomorrow morning would be better.
But next morning's breakfast turned out to be all Jock.
A letter from Grace, his wife. Grace McChesney had been Grace Gait, one of the youngest and cleverest women advertising writers in the profession. When Jock was a cub84 in the Raynor office she had been turning out compelling copy. They had been married four years. Now Jock ruled a mahogany domain85 of his own in the Raynor suite86 overlooking the lake in the great Michigan Avenue building. And Grace was saying, "Eat the crust, girlie. It's the crust that makes your hair grow curly."
Emma, uniformed for work, read hasty extracts from Grace's letter. Buck listened in silence.
"You wouldn't know Jock. He's restless, irritable87, moody88. And the queer part of it is he doesn't know it. He tries to be cheerful, and I could weep to see him. He has tried to cover it up with every kind of war work from Red Crossing to Liberty Loaning, and from writing free full-page national advertising copy to giving up his tobacco money to the smoke fund. And he's miserable89. He wants to get into it. And he ought. But you know I haven't been really husky since Buddy90 came. Not ill, but the doctor says it will be another six months before I'm myself, really. If I had only myself to think of—how simple! But two kiddies need such a lot of things. I could get a job at Raynor's. They need writers. Jock says, bitterly, that all the worth-while men have left. Don't think I'm complaining. I'm just trying to see my way clear, and talking to someone who understands often clears the way."
"Well!" said Emma.
And, "Well?" said T.A.
She sat fingering the letter, her breakfast cooling before her. "Of course, Jock wants to get into it. I wish he could. I'd be so proud of him. He'd be beautiful in khaki. But there's work to do right here. And he ought to be willing to wait six months."
"They can't wait six months over there, Emma. They need him now."
"Oh, come, T.A.! One man—"
"Multiplied by a million. Look at Fisk. Just such another case. Look at—"
The shrill91 summons of the telephone cut him short. Emma's head came up alertly. She glanced at her wrist-watch and gave a little exclamation92 of horror.
"That's for me! I'm half an hour late! The first time, too." She was at the telephone a second later, explanatory, apologetic. Then back in the dining-room doorway93, her cheeks flushed, tugging94 at her gloves, poised95 for flight. "Sorry, dear. But this morning was so important, and that letter about Jock upset me. I'm afraid I'm a rotten soldier."
"I'm afraid you are, Emma."
She stared at that. "Why—! Oh, you're still angry at something. Listen, dear—I'll call for you at the office to-night at five, and we'll walk home together. Wait for me. I may be a few minutes late—"
She was off. The front door slammed sharply. Buck sat very still for a long minute, staring down at the coffee cup whose contents he did not mean to drink. The light from the window cameoed his fine profile. And you saw that his jaw96 was set. His mind was a thousand miles away, in Chicago, Illinois, with the boy who wanted to fight and couldn't.
Emma, flashing down Fifth Avenue as fast as wheels and traffic rules would permit, saw nothing of the splendid street. Her mind was a thousand miles away, in Chicago, Illinois.
And a thousand miles away, in Chicago, Illinois, Jock McChesney, three hours later, was slamming down the two big windows of his office. From up the street came the sound of a bugle97 and of a band playing a brisk march. And his office windows looked out upon Michigan Avenue. If you know Chicago, you know the building that housed the Raynor offices—a great gray shaft98, towering even above its giant neighbours, its head in the clouds, its face set toward the blue beauty of Lake Michigan. Until very recently those windows of his office had been a source of joy and inspiration to Jock McChesney. The green of Grant Park just below. The tangle99 of I.C. tracks beyond that, and the great, gracious lake beyond that, as far as the eye could see. He had seen the changes the year had brought. The lake dotted with sinister100 gray craft. Dog tents in Grant Park, sprung up overnight like brown mushrooms. Men—mere25 boys, most of them—awkward in their workaday clothes of office and shop, drilling, wheeling, marching at the noon hour. And parades, and parades, and parades. At first Jock, and, in fact, the entire office staff—heads of departments, writers, secretaries, stenographers, office boys—would suspend business and crowd to the windows to see the pageant102 pass in the street below. Stirring music, khaki columns, flags, pennants103, horses, bugles104. And always the Jackie band from the Great Lakes Station, its white leggings twinkling down the street in the lead of its six-foot-six contortionistic drum-major.
By October the window-gazers, watching the parades from the Raynor windows, were mostly petticoated and exclamatory. Jock stayed away from the window now. It seemed to his tortured mind that there was a fresh parade hourly, and that bugles and bands sounded a taunting105 note.
"Where are you! (sounded the bugle)
Where are you?
Where are YOU?!!!
Where
are
you?
Where—are—you-u-u-u—"
He slammed down the windows, summoned a stenographer101, and gave out dictation in a loud, rasping voice.
"Yours of the tenth at hand, and contents noted106. In reply I wish to say—"
(Boom! Boom! And a boom-boom-boom!)
"—all copy for the Sans Scent107 Soap is now ready for your approval and will be mailed to you to-day under separate cover. We in the office think that this copy marks a new record in soap advertising—"
(Over there! Over there! Send the word, send the word over there!)
"Just read that last line will you, Miss Dugan?"
"Over th—I mean, 'We in the office think that this copy marks a new record in soap advertising—'"
"H'm. Yes." A moment's pause. A dreamy look on the face of the girl stenographer. Jock interpreted it. He knew that the stenographer was in the chair at the side of his desk, taking his dictation accurately108 and swiftly, while the spirit of the girl herself was far and away at Camp Grant at Rockford, Illinois, with an olive-drab unit in an olive-drab world.
"—and, in fact, in advertising copy of any description that has been sent out from the Raynor offices."
The girl's pencil flew over the pad. But when Jock paused for thought or breath she lifted her head and her eyes grew soft and bright, and her foot, in its absurd high-heeled gray boot, beat a smart left! Left! Left-right-left!
Something of this picture T.A. Buck saw in his untasted coffee cup. Much of it Emma visualized109 in her speeding motor car. All of it Grace knew by heart as she moved about the new, shining house in the Chicago suburb, thinking, planning; feeling his agony, and trying not to admit the transparency of the look about her hands and her temples. So much for Chicago.
At five o'clock Emma left the war to its own devices and dropped in at the loft110 building in which Featherlooms were born and grew up. Mike, the elevator man, twisted his gray head about at an unbelievable length to gaze appreciatively at the trim, uniformed figure.
"Haven't seen you around fur many the day, Mis' Buck."
"Been too busy, Mike."
Mike turned back to face the door. "Well, 'tis a great responsibility, runnin' this war, an' all." He stopped at the Featherloom floor and opened the door with his grandest flourish. Emma glanced at him quickly. His face was impassive. She passed into the reception room with a little jingling111 of buckles and strap50 hooks.
The work day was almost ended. The display room was empty of buyers. She could see the back of her husband's head in his office. He was busy at his desk. A stock girl was clearing away the piles of garments that littered tables and chairs. At the window near the door Fisk, the Western territory man, stood talking with O'Brien, city salesman. The two looked around at her approach. O'Brien's face lighted up with admiration112. Into Fisk's face there flashed a look so nearly resembling resentment113 that Emma, curious to know its origin, stopped to chat a moment with the two.
Said O'Brien, the gallant114 Irishman, "I'm more resigned to war this minute, Mrs. Buck, than I've been since it began."
Emma dimpled, turned to Fisk, stood at attention. Fisk said nothing. His face was unsmiling. "Like my uniform?" Emma asked; and wished, somehow, that she hadn't.
Fisk stared. His eyes had none of the softness of admiration. They were hard, resentful. Suddenly, "Like it! God! I wish I could wear one!" He turned away, abruptly. O'Brien threw him a sharp look. Then he cleared his throat, apologetically.
Emma glanced down at her own trim self—at her stitched seams, her tailored lengths, her shining belt and buckles, her gloved hands—and suddenly and unaccountably her pride in them vanished. Something—something—
She wheeled and made for Buck's office, her colour high. He looked up, rose, offered her a chair. She felt strangely ill at ease there in the office to which she had given years of service. The bookkeeper in the glass-enclosed cubby-hole across the little hall smiled and nodded and called through the open door: "My, you're a stranger, Mrs. Buck."
"Be with you in a minute, Emma," said T.A. And turned to his desk again. She rose and strolled toward the door, restlessly. "Don't hurry." Out in the showroom again she saw Fisk standing before a long table. He was ticketing and folding samples of petticoats, pajamas, blouses, and night-gowns. His cigar was gripped savagely115 between his teeth and his eyes squinted116, half closed through the smoke.
She strolled over to him and fingered the cotton flannel of a garment that lay under her hand. "Spring samples?"
"Yes."
"It ought to be a good trip. They say the West is dripping money, war or no war."
"'S right."
"How's Gertie?"
"Don't get me started, Mrs. Buck. That girl!—say, I knew what she was when I married her, and so did you. She was head stenographer here long enough. But I never really knew that kid until now, and we've been married two years. You know what the last year has been for her; the baby and all. And then losing him. And do you know what she says! That if there was somebody who knew the Western territory and could cover it, she'd get a job and send me to war. Yessir! That's Gert. We've been married two years, and she says herself it's the first really happy time she's ever known. You know what she had at home. Why, even when I was away on my long spring trip she used to say it wasn't so bad being alone, because there was always my home-coming to count on. How's that for a wife!"
"Gertie's splendid," agreed Emma. And wondered why it sounded so lame46.
"You don't know her. Why, when it comes to patriotism117, she makes T.R. look like a pacifist. She says if she could sell my line on the road, she'd make you give her the job so she could send her man to war. Gert says a travelling man's wife ought to make an ideal soldier's wife, anyway; and that if I went it would only be like my long Western trip, multiplied by about ten, maybe. That's Gertie."
Emma was fingering the cotton-flannel garment on the table.
Buck crossed the room and stood beside her. "Sorry I kept you waiting. Three of the boys were called to-day. It crippled us pretty badly in the shipping118 room. Ready?"
"Yes. Good-night, Charley. Give my love to Gertie."
"Thanks, Mrs. Buck." He picked up his cigar, took an apprehensive119 puff120 and went on ticketing and folding. There was a grin behind the cigar now.
Into the late afternoon glitter of Fifth Avenue. Five o'clock Fifth Avenue. Flags of every nation, save one. Uniforms of every blue from French to navy; of almost any shade save field green. Pongee-coloured Englishmen, seeming seven feet high, to a man; aviators121 slim and elegant, with walking sticks made of the propeller122 of their shattered planes, with a notch123 for every Hun plane bagged. Slim girls, exotic as the orchids124 they wore, gazing limpid-eyed at these warrior44 élégants. Women uniformed to the last degree of tailored exquisiteness125. Girls, war accoutred, who brought arms up in sharp salute126 as they passed Emma. Buck eyed them gravely, hat and arm describing parabolas with increasing frequency as they approached Fiftieth Street, slackening as the colourful pageant grew less brilliant, thinned, and faded into the park mists.
Emma's cheeks were a glorious rose-pink. Head high, shoulders back, she matched her husband's long stride every step of the way. Her eyes were bright and very blue.
"There's a beautiful one, T.A.! The Canadian officer with the limp. They've all been gassed, and shot five times in the thigh127 and seven in the shoulder, and yet look at 'em! What do you suppose they were when they were new if they can look like that, damaged!"
Buck cut a vicious little semi-circle in the air with his walking stick.
"I know now how the father of the Gracchi felt, and why you never hear him mentioned."
"Nonsense, T.A. You're doing a lot." She did not intend her tone to be smug; but if she had glanced sidewise at her husband, she might have seen the pained red mount from chin to brow. She did not seem to sense his hurt. They went on, past the plaza128 now. Only a few blocks lay between them and their home; the old brownstone house that had been New York's definition of architectural elegance129 in the time of T.A. Buck, Sr.
"Tell me, Emma. Does this satisfy you—the work you're doing, I mean? Do you think you're giving the best you've got?"
"Well, of course I'd like to go to France—"
"I didn't ask you what you'd like."
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir. I don't know what you call giving the best one has got. But you know I work from eight in the morning until midnight, often and often. Oh, I don't say that someone else couldn't do my work just as well. And I don't say, either, that it doesn't include a lot of dashing up and down Fifth Avenue, and teaing at the Ritz, and meeting magnificent Missions, and being cooed over by Lady Millionaires. But if you'd like a few statistics as to the number of hundreds of thousands of soldiers we've canteened since last June, I'd be pleased to oblige." She tugged130 at a capacious pocket and brought forth131 a smart leather-bound notebook.
"Spare me! I've had all the statistics I can stand for one day at the office. I know you're working hard. I just wondered if you didn't realize—"
They turned into their own street. "Realize what?"
"Nothing. Nothing."
Emma sighed a mock sigh and glanced up at the windows of her own house. "Oh, well, everybody's difficult these days, T.A., including husbands. That second window shade is crooked132. Isn't it queer how maids never do.... I'll tell you what I can realize, though. I realize that we're going to have dinner at home, reg'lar old-fashioned befo'-de-war. And I can bathe before dinner. There's richness."
But when she appeared at dinner, glowing, radiant, her hair shiningly re-coifed, she again wore the blue uniform, with the service cap atop her head. Buck surveyed her, unsmiling. She seated herself at table with a little clinking of buckles and buttons. She flung her motor gloves on a near-by chair, ran an inquiring finger along belt and collar with a little gesture that was absurdly feminine in its imitation of masculinity. Buck did not sit down. He stood at the opposite side of the table, one hand on his chair, the knuckles133 showing white where he gripped it.
"It seems to me, Emma, that you might manage to wear something a little less military when you're dining at home. War is war, but I don't see why you should make me feel like your orderly. It's like being married to a policewoman. Surely you can neglect your country for the length of time it takes to dine with your husband."
It was the bitterest speech he had made to her in the years of their married life. She flushed a little. "I thought you knew that I was going out again immediately after dinner. I left at five with the understanding that I'd be on duty again at 8.30."
He said nothing. He stood looking down at his own hand that gripped the chair back so tightly. Emma sat back and surveyed her trim and tailored self with a placidity134 that had in it, perhaps, a dash of malice135. His last speech had cut. Then she reached forward, helped herself to an olive, and nibbled136 it, head on one side.
"D'you know, T.A., what I think? H'm? I think you're jealous of your wife's uniform."
She had touched the match to the dynamite137.
He looked up. At the blaze in his eyes she shrank back a little. His face was white. He was breathing quickly.
"You're right! I am. I am jealous. I'm jealous of every buck private in the army! I'm jealous of the mule138 drivers! Of the veterinarians. Of the stokers in the transports. Men!" He doubled his hand into a fist. His fine eyes glowed. "Men!"
And suddenly he sat down, heavily, and covered his eyes with his hands.
Emma sat staring at him for a dull, sickening moment. Then she looked down at herself, horror in her eyes. Then up again at him. She got up and came over to him.
"Why, dear—dearest—I didn't know. I thought you were satisfied. I thought you were happy. You—"
"Honey, the only man who's happy is the man in khaki. The rest of us are gritting139 our teeth and pretending."
She put a hand on his shoulder. "But what do you want—what can you do that—"
He reached back over his shoulder and found her hand. He straightened. His head came up. "They've offered me a job in Bordeaux. It isn't a fancy job. It has to do with merchandising. But I think you know they're having a devil of a time with all the millions of bales of goods. They need men who know materials. I ought to. I've handled cloth and clothes enough. I know values. It would mean hard work—manual work lots of times. No pay. And happiness. For me." There was a silence. It seemed to fill the room, that silence. It filled the house. It roared and thundered about Emma's ears, that silence. When finally she broke it:
"Blind!" she said. "Blind! Deaf! Dumb! And crazy." She laughed, and two tears sped down her cheeks and dropped on the unblemished blue serge uniform. "Oh, T.A.! Where have I been? How you must have despised me. Me, in my uniform. In my uniform that was costing the Government three strapping140 men. My uniform, that was keeping three man-size soldiers out of khaki. You, Jock, and Fisk. Why didn't you tell me, dear! Why didn't you tell me!"
"I've tried. I couldn't. You've always seen things first. I couldn't ask you to go back to the factory."
"Factory! Factory nothing! I'm going back on the road. I'm taking Fisk's Western territory. I know the Middle West better than Fisk himself. I ought to. I covered it for ten years. I'll pay Gertie Fisk's salary until she's able to come back to us as stenographer. We've never had one so good. Grace can give the office a few hours a week. And we can promote O'Brien to manager while I'm on the road."
Buck was staring at her, dully. "Grace? Now wait a minute. You're travelling too fast for a mere man." His hand was gripping hers, tight, tight.
Their dinner was cooling on the table. They ignored it. She pulled a chair around to his. They sat shoulder to shoulder, elbows on the cloth.
"It took me long enough to wake up, didn't it? I've got to make up for lost time. The whole thing's clear in my mind. Now get this: Jock gets a commission. Grace and the babies pack up and come to New York, and live right here, with me, in this house. Fisk goes to war. Gertie gets well and comes back to work for Featherlooms. Mr. T.A. Buck goes to Bordeaux. Old Emmer takes off her uniform and begins to serve her country—on the road."
At that he got up and began pacing the room. "I can't have you do that, dear. Why, you left all that behind when you married me."
"Yes, but our marriage certificate didn't carry a war guarantee."
"Gad141, Emma, you're glorious!"
"Glorious nothing! I'm going to earn the living for three families for a few months, until things get going. And there's nothing glorious about that, old dear. I haven't any illusions about what taking a line on the road means these days. It isn't travelling. It's exploring. You never know where you're going to land, or when, unless you're travelling in a freight train. They're cock o' the walk now. I think I'll check myself through as first-class freight. Or send my pack ahead, with natives on foot, like an African explorer. But it'll be awfully good for me character. And when I'm eating that criminal corn bread they serve on dining cars on a train that's seven hours late into Duluth I'll remember when I had my picture, in uniform, in the Sunday supplements, with my hand on the steering142 wheel along o' the nobility and gentry143."
"Listen, dear, I can't have you—"
"Too late. Got a pencil? Let's send fifty words to Jock and Grace. They'll wire back 'No!' but another fifty'll fetch 'em. After all, it takes more than one night letter to explain a move that is going to change eight lives. Now let's have dinner, dear. It'll be cold, but filling."
Perhaps in the whirlwind ten days that followed a woman of less energy, less determination, less courage and magnificent vitality144 might have faltered145 and failed in an undertaking146 of such magnitude. But Emma was alert and forceful enough to keep just one jump ahead of the swift-moving times. In a less cataclysmic age the changes she wrought147 within a period of two weeks would have seemed herculean. But in this time of stress and change, when every household in every street in every town in all the country was feeling the tremor148 of upheaval149, the readjustment of this little family and business group was so unremarkable as to pass unnoticed. Even the members of the group itself, seeing themselves scattered150 to camp, to France, to New York, to the Middle West, shuffled151 like pawns152 that the Great Game might the better be won, felt strangely unconcerned and unruffled.
It was little more than two weeks after the night of Emma's awakening153 that she was talking fast to keep from crying hard, as she stuffed plain, practical blue serge garments (unmilitary) into a bellows154 suitcase ("Can't count on trunks these days," she had said. "I'm not taking any chances on a clean shirtwaist"). Buck, standing in the doorway, tried hard to keep his gaze from the contemplation of his khaki-clad self reflected in the long mirror. At intervals155 he said: "Can't I help, dear?" Or, "Talk about the early Pilgrim mothers, and the Revolutionary mothers, and the Civil War mothers! I'd like to know what they had on you, Emma."
And from Emma: "Yeh, ain't I noble!" Then, after a little pause: "This house is going to be so full of wimmin folks it'll look like a Home for Decayed Gentlewomen. Buddy McChesney, aged77 six months, is going to be the only male protector around the place. We'll make him captain of the home guard."
"Gertie was in to-day. She says I'm a shrimp156 in my uniform compared to Charley. You know she always was the nerviest little stenographer we ever had about the place, but she knows more about Featherlooms than any woman in the shop except you. She's down to ninety-eight pounds, poor little girl, but every ounce of it's pure pluck, and she says she'll be as good as new in a month or two, and I honestly believe she will."
Emma was counting a neat stack of folded handkerchiefs. "Seventeen—eighteen—When she comes back we'll have to pay her twice the salary she got when she left. But, then, you have to pay an errand boy what you used to pay a shipping clerk, and a stock girl demands money that an operator used to brag157 about—nineteen—"
Buck came over to her and put a hand on the bright hair that was rumpled158, now, from much diving into bags and suitcases and clothes closets.
"All except you, Emma. You'll be working without a salary—working like a man—like three men—"
"Working for three men, T.A. Three fighting men. I've got two service buttons already," she glanced down at her blouse, "and Charley Fisk said I had the right to wear one for him. I'll look like a mosaic159, but I'm going to put 'em all on."
The day before Emma's departure for the West Grace arrived, with bags, bundles, and babies. A wan45 and tired Grace, but proud, too, and with the spirit of the times in her eyes.
"Jock!" she repeated, in answer to their questions. "My dears, he doesn't know I'm alive. I visited him at camp the day before I left. He thinks he'll be transferred East, as we hoped. Wouldn't that be glorious! Well, I had all sorts of intimate and vital things to discuss with him, and he didn't hear what I was saying. He wasn't even listening. He couldn't wait until I had finished a sentence so that he could cut in with something about his work. I murmured to him in the moonlight that there was something I had long meant to tell him and he answered that dammit he forgot to report that rifle that exploded. And when I said, 'Dearest, isn't this hotel a little like the place we spent our honeymoon160 in—that porch, and all?' he said, 'See this feller coming, Gracie? The big guy with the moustache. Now mash161 him, Gracie. He's my Captain. I'm going to introduce you. He was a senior at college when I was a fresh.'"
But the peace and the pride in her eyes belied162 her words.
Emma's trip, already delayed, was begun ten days before her husband's date for sailing. She bore that, too, with smiling equanimity163. "When I went to school," she said, "I thought I hated the Second Peloponnesian War worse than any war I'd ever heard of. But I hate this one so that I want everyone to get into it one hundred per cent., so that it'll be over sooner; and because we've won."
They said little on their way to the train. She stood on the rear platform just before the train pulled out. They had tried frantically164 to get a lower berth165, but unsuccessfully. "Don't look so tragic about it," she laughed. "It's like old times. These last three years have been a dream—a delusion166."
He looked up at her, as she stood there in her blue suit, and white blouse, and trim blue hat and crisp veil. "Gad, Emma, it's uncanny. I believe you're right. You look exactly as you did when I first saw you, when you came in off the road after father died and I had just taken hold of the business."
For answer she hummed a few plaintive167 bars. He grinned as he recognized "Silver Threads Among the Gold." The train moved away, gathered speed. He followed it. They were not smiling now. She was leaning over the railing, as though to be as near to him as the fast-moving train would allow. He was walking swiftly along with the train, as though hypnotized. Their eyes held. The brave figure in blue on the train platform. The brave figure in khaki outside. The blue suddenly swam in a haze168 before his eyes; the khaki a mist before hers. The crisp little veil was a limp little rag when finally she went in to search for Upper Eleven.
The white-coated figure that had passed up and down the aisle169 unnoticed and unnoticing as she sat hidden behind the kindly170 folds of her newspaper suddenly became a very human being as Emma regained171 self-control, decided172 on dinner as a panacea173, and informed the white coat that she desired Upper Eleven made up early.
The White Coat had said, "Yas'm," and glanced up at her. Whereupon she had said:
"Why, William!"
And he, "Well, fo' de lan'! 'F 'tain't Mis' McChesney! Well, mah sakes alive, Mis' McChesney! Ah ain't seen yo' since yo' married. Ah done heah yo' married yo' boss an' got a swell174 brownstone house, an' ev'thing gran'—"
"I've got everything, William, but a lower berth to Chicago. They swore they couldn't give me anything but an upper."
A speculative175 look crept into William's rolling eye. Emma recognized it. Her hand reached toward her bag. Then it stopped. She smiled. "No. No, William. Time was. But not these days. Four years ago I'd have slipped you fifty cents right now, and you'd have produced a lower berth from somewhere. But I'm going to fool you. My boss has gone to war, William, and so has my son. And I'm going to take that fifty cents and buy thrift176 stamps for Miss Emma McChesney, aged three, and Mr. Buddy McChesney, aged six months. And I'll dispose my old bones in Upper Eleven."
She went in to dinner.
At eight-thirty a soft and deferential177 voice sounded in her ear.
"Ah got yo' made up, Mis' McChesney."
"But this is my—"
He beckoned178. He padded down the aisle with that walk which is a peculiar179 result of flat feet and twenty years of swaying car. Emma followed. He stopped before Lower Six and drew aside the curtain. It was that lower which can always be produced, magically, though ticket sellers, Pullman agents, porters, and train conductors swear that it does not exist. The key to it is silver, but to-night Emma McChesney Buck had unlocked it with finer metal. Gold. Pure gold. For William drew aside the curtain with a gesture such as one of his slave ancestors might have used before a queen of Egypt. He carefully brushed a cinder180 from the sheet with one gray-black hand. Then he bowed like any courtier.
Emma sank down on the edge of the couch with a little sigh of weariness. Gratefulness was in it, too. She looked up at him—at the wrinkled, kindly, ape-like face, and he looked down at her.
"William," she said, "war is a filthy181, evil, vile55 thing, but it bears wonderful white flowers."
"Yas'm!" agreed William, genially182, and smiled all over his rubbery, gray-black countenance183. "Yas'm!"
And who shall say he did not understand?
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1
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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elucidated
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| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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17
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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18
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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serenely
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snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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45
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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56
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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irrelevance
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| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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76
massaged
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| 按摩，推拿( massage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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79
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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81
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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82
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
canniness
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| 精明 | |
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84
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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85
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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86
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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87
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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88
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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89
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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90
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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91
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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92
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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93
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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94
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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95
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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96
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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97
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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98
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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99
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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100
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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101
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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102
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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103
pennants
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| n.校旗( pennant的名词复数 )；锦标旗；长三角旗；信号旗 | |
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104
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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105
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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106
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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107
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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108
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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109
visualized
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| 直观的，直视的 | |
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110
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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111
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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112
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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113
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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114
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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115
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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116
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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117
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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118
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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119
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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120
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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121
aviators
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| 飞机驾驶员，飞行员( aviator的名词复数 ) | |
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122
propeller
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器 | |
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123
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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124
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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125
exquisiteness
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126
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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127
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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128
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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129
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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130
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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132
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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133
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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134
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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135
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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136
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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137
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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138
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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139
gritting
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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140
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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141
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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142
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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143
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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144
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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145
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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146
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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147
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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148
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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149
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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150
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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151
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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152
pawns
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| n.（国际象棋中的）兵( pawn的名词复数 )；卒；被人利用的人；小卒v.典当，抵押( pawn的第三人称单数 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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153
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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154
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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155
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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156
shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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157
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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158
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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160
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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161
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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162
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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163
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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164
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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165
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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166
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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167
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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168
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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169
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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170
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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171
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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172
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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173
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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174
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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175
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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176
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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177
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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178
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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180
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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181
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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182
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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183
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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