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what you were up to.” He pulled in his chin, frowning slightly, as he watched her take out the crumpled handkerchief and arrange the fresh one. Being fussed over embarrassed him; he was still more sharply embarrassed by the discreet white corner his wife took care to leave peeping from the pocket. His hand moved instinctively; he caught himself in time and put his hand in his pocket.
    “There. You look very nice,” she said, studying him earnestly, as if he were her son. He felt rather foolish, tender towards her innocence of this motherliness, and quite flattered. He felt for a moment rather vainly sure that he did indeed look very nice, to her anyhow, and that was all he cared about.
    “Well,” he said, taking out his watch. “Good Lord a mercy!” He showed her. Three-forty-one. “I didn’t think it was hardly three.”
    “Oh yes. It’s very late.”
    “Well, no more dawdling.” He put an arm around her shoulder and they walked to the back door. “All right, Mary. I hate to go, but—can’t be avoided.”
    She opened the door and led him through, to the back porch. “You’ll catch cold,” he said. She shook her head. “No. It feels milder outside than in.”
    They walked to the edge of the porch. The moistures of May drowned all save the most ardent stars, and gave back to the earth the sublimated light of the prostrate city. Deep in the end of the back yard, the blossoming peach tree shone like a celestial sentinel. The fecund air lavished upon their faces the tenderness of lovers’ adoring hands, the dissolving fragrance of the opened world, which slept against the sky.
    “What a heavenly night, Jay,” she said in the voice which was dearest to him. “I almost wish I could come with you”—she remembered more clearly “—in whatever happens.”
    “I wish you could, dear,” he said, though his mind had not been on such a possibility; frankly, he had suddenly looked forward to the solitary drive. But now the peculiar quality of her voice reached him and he said, with love, “I wish you could.”
    They stood bemused by the darkness.
    “Well, Jay,” she said abruptly, “I mustn’t keep you.”
    He was silent a moment. “hope,” he said, a curious, weary sadness in his voice. “Time to go.”
    He took her in his arms, leaning back to look at her. It was not really anything of a separation, yet he was surprised to find that it seemed to him a grave one, perhaps because his business was grave, or because of the solemn hour. He saw this in her face as well, and almost wished they had waked the children after all.
    “Good-bye, Mary,” he said.
    “Good-bye, Jay.”
    They kissed, and her head settled for a moment against him. He stroked her hair. “I’ll let you know,” he said, “quick as I can, if it’s serious.”
    “I pray it won’t be, Jay.”
    “Well, we can only hope.” The moment of full tenderness between them was dissolved in their thought, but he continued gently to stroke the round back of her head.
    “Give all my love to your mother. Tell her they’re both in my thoughts and wishes—constantly. And your father, of course, if he’s—well enough to talk to.”
    “Sure, dear.”
    “And take care of yourself.”
    “Sure.”
    He patted her back and they parted.
    “Then I’ll hear from you—see you—very soon.”
    “That’s right.”
    “All right, Jay.” She squeezed his arm. He kissed her, just beneath the eye, and realized her disappointed lips; they smiled, and he kissed her heartily on the mouth. In a glimmer of gaiety, both were on the verge of parting with their customary morning farewell, she singing, “Good-bye John, don’t stay long,” he singing back, “I’ll be back in a week or two,” but both thought better of it.
    “All right, dear. Good-bye.”
    “Good-bye, my dear.”
    He turned abruptly at the bottom of the steps. “Hey,” he whispered. “How’s your money?”
    She thought rapidly. “All right, thank you.”
    “Tell the children