Carter stared from her to the pie and then back to her. Fresh from the victory of Château-Thierry, this was such a pitiful travesty! She was crying—she, the mother of his son who had fought with the Marines this day, was crying in fear of his anger because she had spoiled in the baking an apple pie. Good Lord, to what depths had he sunk! To what pitiful depths of banality had he dragged her! He strode to her side and seized her in his arms fiercely as a baffled lover. “Kitty,” he cried hoarsely, “look up at me!” In amazement she obeyed. The clutch of his arms took her back twenty-five years. He saw the springtime blue of her eyes. “Kitty,” he pleaded, “can you forgive me?” “Forgive—you?” she stammered, not understanding. “For making you think it matters a picayune what I have to eat. Little woman—little woman, we took Château-Thierry to-day!” She drew back a little as though expecting evil news to follow. But the news had not yet come. “We,” he repeated—“you and I and Ben and the Marines and Uncle Sam and God—all together. We not only held the beasts but drove them back. It’s in the papers to-night.” “And Ben——” she faltered. “He must have been there,” he answered. “He—he——” But she did not finish her timorous question. She caught the contagion of the fire in her husband’s eyes and sealed her lips. And he, stooping, kissed those lips as he used to kiss them before the boy came. The next morning Carter drank his coffee black, and when Kitty brought on the war doughnuts he shoved them aside. “Don’t make any more,” he said. “Cut ’em out altogether. That’s the trick.” And when on the eight-ten Newell came round with a recipe for making frosting without sugar, Carter refused to listen. “Look here, Newell,” he protested, “those confounded things don’t interest me.” “They don’t?” returned Newell ominously. “Not a little bit,” Carter continued calmly. “You mean to tell me you aren’t interested in conservation?” “Did I say that?” “Well, it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?” “Not on your tintype!” replied Carter. “Look here, Newell, you’ve been talking pretty plain to me lately and perhaps I’ve deserved it, but it leaves me free to give you a few ideas of my own. What we’ve got to do is to face this war—not duck it. We aren’t going to win with substitutes but with sacrifices. The trouble with you and your crowd—the trouble with me—is that we’ve been trying to eat our cake and save it too. What’s the use of those fool recipes of yours? The time has come to give up cake and pie and doughnuts—then why in thunder not give them up and be done with it?” “But the Government doesn’t ask that,” cut in Newell. “Who’s the Government?” demanded Carter. “Why—why——” “You are. I am,” Carter cut in, answering his own question. “That’s all there is to it. And if you want to understand how important you are, just multiply yourself by a hundred million. That’s what Hoover does. Do it for yourself.” Newell smiled a little maliciously.