In November, honed by the interim of training to even a new leanness, and sailing-orders heavy and light in his heart, Lieutenant Kantor, on two days' home-leave, took leave of home, which can be crudest when it is tenderest. Standing there in the expensive, the formal, the enormous French parlor of his up-town apartment de luxe, from not one of whose chairs would his mother's feet touch floor, a wall of living flesh, mortared in blood, was throbbing and hedging him in. He would pace up and down the long room, heavy with the faces of those who mourn, with a laugh too ready, too facetious, in his fear for them. "Well, well, what is this, anyway, a wake? Where's the coffin? Who's dead?" His sister-in-law shot out her plump, watch-encrusted wrist. "Don't, Leon!" she cried. "Such talk is a sin! It might come true." "Rosie-posy-butter-ball," he said, pausing beside her chair to pinch her deeply soft cheek. "Cry-baby-roly-poly, you can't shove me off in a wooden kimono that way." From his place before the white-and-gold mantel, staring steadfastly at the floor tiling, Isadore Kantor turned suddenly, a bit whiter and older at the temples. "I don't get your comedy, Leon." "'Wooden kimono'--Leon?" "That's the way the fellows at camp joke about coffins, ma. I didn't mean anything but fun! Great Scott! Can't any one take a joke!" "O God! O God!" His mother fell to swaying softly, hugging herself against shivering. "Did you sign over power of attorney to pa, Leon?" "All fixed, Izzie." "I'm so afraid, son, you don't take with you enough money in your pockets. You know how you lose it. If only you would let mamma sew that little bag inside your uniform, with a little place for bills and a little place for the asafoetida!" "Now, please, ma--please! If I needed more, wouldn't I take it? Wouldn't I be a pretty joke among the fellows, tied up in that smelling stuff! Orders are orders, ma, I know what to take and what not to take." "Please, Leon, don't get mad at me, but if you will let me put in your suit-case just one little box of that salve, for your finger-tips, so they don't crack--" Pausing as he paced to lay cheek to her hair, he patted her. "Three boxes, if you want. Now, how's that?" "And you won't take it out so soon as my back is turned?" "Cross my heart." His touch seemed to set her trembling again, all her illy concealed emotions rushing up. "I can't stand it! Can't! Can't! Take my life--take my blood, but don't take my boy--don't take my boy--" "Mamma, mamma, is that the way you're going to begin all over again, after your promise?" She clung to him, heaving against the rising storm of sobs. "I can't help it--can't! Cut out my heart from me, but let me keep my boy--my wonderboy--" "Oughtn't she be ashamed of herself? Just listen to her, Esther! What will we do with her? Talks like she had a guarantee I wasn't coming back. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if by spring I wasn't tuning up again for a coast-to-coast tour--"