In her too-tight, boyish blouse, gaping at the throat, she stood there in the middle of the room, hands bracketed on delicate hips, and smiled at him. And behind her the lamp in its socket on the wall smoked a trifle from a too-high wick. Old Jerry stood and gazed at her, one hand still clutching the door latch. In one great illuminating flash he saw it all--understood just what it meant--and with that understanding a hot wave of rage began to well up within him--a fierce and righteous wrath, borne of all that day's unnecessary agony and those last few minutes of fear. It was a hoax on her part. She had been trifling with him the day before, just as she had been playing fast and loose with his peace of mind for days. An ejaculation bordering close upon actual profanity trembled upon his lips, but a draft of cold air sweeping in at the open doorway set the lamp flickering wildly and brought him back a little to himself. His eyes went again to the girl in the middle of the floor. She was rocking to and fro upon the balls of her feet, every inch of her fairly pulsing with mocking, malicious delight. She waited for him to speak, and he, stiff of back and grim of face, stood stonily silent. She seemed all innocently unaware of his unconcealed disgust. The quizzical smile only widened before the chilly threat of his beady eyes and ruffled forehead. And then, all in one breath, her little pouted chin went up and she burst into a low gurgle of utter enjoyment of the tableau. "Well," she demanded, "aren't you ever going to say anything? Here I am! I--I decided to move today--there really wasn't any use of waiting. Aren't you surprised--just a little?" The meekness of her voice, so wholly belied by her eyes and lips and swaying boy-like body, only tightened the old man's mouth. He was still reviewing all that long day's mental torment, counting the wasted hours which might have been applied to a soul-satisfying feast upon Morehouse's red-headlined account in the paper. No veteran had ever marched more hopelessly into a cannon's mouth than he had approached the door of that kitchen. And yet a flood of thankfulness, the direct reflex of his first impotent rage, threatened to sweep up and drown the fires of his wrath. Already he wanted to slump down into a chair and rest weary body and wearier, relieved brain; he wanted a minute or two in which to realize that she was there--that his unfulfilled promise was still far from being actual catastrophe--and he would not let himself. Not yet! She had been playing with him--playing with him cat-and-mouse fashion. The birdlike features which had begun to relax hardened once more. "Maybe I be," he answered her question with noncommittal grimness. "Maybe I be--and maybe I ain't!" And then, almost belligerently: "Your lamp's a-smokin'!" She turned and strained on tiptoe and lowered it.