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tone so nasty that Georgine was startled. She began to ask herself, What goes on in this place? Wasn’t there something more than war nerves—?
    â€œI could serve temporarily, if you like,” said the quiet voice of the man sitting beside Ralph Stort. He bent forward as he spoke, and his face came into the light so that its angles stood out like those of a bold carving: eyes deep-set between sandy brows and high cheekbones, flat planes of cheeks, firm jaw. The face looked as if it would be hard to the touch. During the minutes just past Georgine had been watching him as he looked from one person to another, with such a total lack of expression that she’d thought he must be inwardly amused. At this moment their eyes met briefly, and she was sure of it.
    â€œWell, thanks, McKinnon,” Hollister said dubiously. “You’re night warden in your own district, aren’t you? That might do, for as long as you’re up here. When are the Cliftons coming home?”
    â€œI don’t quite know,” said Mr. McKinnon. “I’m not hurrying them, it’s very convenient for me to work there daytimes.”
    â€œSee me after the meeting, then. I guess that’s all, folks. If you’d stay a minute, Mrs.-uh-Wyeth? Like you to fill out one of these slips.”
    Ricky Devlin lingered beside Georgine; she saw that his color had returned to normal, and was no longer afraid that he might burst into tears of shame if anyone noticed him. “Is it you who plays the mouth-organ, Ricky?” she asked. “I heard someone practicing this afternoon.”
    â€œNot me,” Ricky said. “It musta been Mr. McKinnon over there. He’s the old bearcat on the harmonica.”
    â€œThe one who was just talking? Not really ?”
    Mrs. Gillespie, preparing to go, bent over her. “He’s a little queer, anyhow,” she said anxiously. “I don’t know if he’d be a very responsible warden. You know what he told somebody? They were talking about draft numbers, and he said he’d never be called, the Army didn’t want him because he was a Japanese spy. He said they’d fixed up his face with plastic surgery.”
    Georgine’s lips twitched, and she glanced once more at the transformed face, which would have looked perfectly at home under a Glengarry bonnet. “Of course I knew it was a joke,” Mrs. Gillespie added, “but he must have a funny kind of mind to say a thing like that.”
    The living-room was gradually emptying; Mrs. Devlin folded up the embroidery to which she had given her attention throughout the meeting, and looked for her son. He was speaking to Claris Frey. The sight of the two young things standing in a glow of afternoon sunlight brought a queer pain to the heart, but they behaved like no more than casual acquaintances. “New dress, Clar?” Ricky said politely. “Very solid set of threads.”
    â€œThanks,” said Claris languidly, turning away to follow her father. Mrs. Devlin gave a little sigh, in which relief and satisfaction were plain. “Coming home with mother, Ricky dear?” she said triumphantly.
    It was at that moment that Georgine conceived a violent partisanship for young Frederic Devlin. Anyone could have forgiven him if he had snarled at his mother; but he did not. With a curiously adult resignation he stood back to let her precede him, and there was nothing in his boy’s face but courtesy.
    Hollister had gone to the door with some of the party, and Mr. McKinnon came strolling across the room to stand by Georgine. The light struck a spark of copper from his sandy brush of mustache. “As one temporary resident to another, Mrs. Wyeth,” he said, “let me tell you that all wardens aren’t quite as zealous as this one. He does a conscientious job, but maybe we’re not so near to dissolution as he makes out.” The casual quiet of his voice made light of