Against her aunt’s will, Lory was to begin her search for work that day. There were virtually no advertisements for help. She started early to find an employment agency. The Inger went with her, and when they were alone in the street, she turned to him. “Don’t you leave me keep you here a minute,” she said earnestly. “You go when you’re ready—you know that.” “Go where?” he said. “Where’ll I go?” “Where you want to,” she answered. “I mean—I’ve hung on to you long enough.” “You want me to go, don’t you?” he said. “Well—I should think you would.” “I don’t want to drag on you—and spend your money,” she answered. “As soon as I can, I’ll pay you for my ticket—you know that—” She stopped, suddenly breathless. “Oh,” she said, “I ain’t goin’ to try to tell you all you done for me. I guess you know that!” “You look a-here,” he said, “I’m goin’ to sit by till I see you get some kind of a job—if a job’s what you want. Oh, don’t be afraid I’ll bother you. I’ll get a room somewheres—and keep track. And don’t you be afraid I’ll do much—not _much_—that I don’t want to do.” They went to one or two of the agencies, and the Inger waited on the curb till she reappeared—sometimes after an hour of his waiting. And once as they went through a downtown street, he spoke in wonder: “I never saw so many women in a place in my life,” he said. “Not even in Inch, in race track times. Did you notice?” Lory sighed. “Yes,” she said, “I did. How do you s’pose they all got so much to see about, and such a lot o’ nice clothes?” she asked. The day passed fruitlessly for her. The Inger found a room, which he rented without looking at it, and came back to the Folts’s for his things. Mrs. Folts insisted that he stay for supper, and when he had accepted he was aghast to find that, the evening being chilly, and Mr. Folts being kept late at the department that night, they were to sit at supper in the kitchen. The old man on the settle was very quiet. He sat crouched in a corner, and save for those immovable eyes on them all, his presence would hardly have been noticed. The Inger had brought an evening paper, and occasionally he read from it snatches of the European news, but principally to keep his eyes from the old man. “Ranks to be thrown open without age limit.” he read. “Rumored that young boys and old men will be drafted within a month.” “There, pa, who says that ain’t _your_ chance?” Mrs. Folts put in. The old man lifted his head, and listened. “War may drag on for another year,” the Inger continued, and the old man broke out with that sharp labored outpouring of guttural breath—once, twice, three times. “War!” he said. “War. War. Who says I can go? Who says....” He forgot what he had been saying, and searched for it piteously. He sprang up, and paced the four steps each way that his chain allowed him. “There, there, pa! I’ll come feed you your supper now,” Mrs. Folts soothed him.