The household was not easy of readjustment until finally were procured the services of one of the charwomen from the Bronx Theater, who prepared the meals and could flute Zoe's collars to the utmost delicacy. At this time Zoe was an advanced junior in High School, president of her class, although the hawklike tutelage of Cleofant Trieste had delayed graduation for a year, slowing down her curriculum to meet his demands of harmony, languages, rhythmic dancing, and sports. She had a long, sure swimming stroke that could carry her again her length, rode with the fine fluid movement of a young body at one with her mount, and because of her five hours a week at gymnasium excelled in the rather uncommon sport of handball. She no longer wore her hair in its great avalanche of curls down her back; they were caught in now with an amber barrette. Nights Lilly loved to brush them out until they flared to a dust of gold about her head. There was no light too dull for this hair to catch. It sprang out in radiance against any background. "When you sing Marguerite, Zoe, you won't need a wig." "Ah, but when I sing Electra--Thais--the real me--no namby-pamby Marguerite--no pearls--that's how I feel about Thais--as if she were a great opal full of fire. Hair," flopping her head backward with a bounce of curls, "is hot--it restricts. These curls--they are all hot and crawly around my neck, holding me." "Poor Harry! You remember how he used to love to take you out walking to show off your curls?" "Lilly, is Mrs. Schum going to get well?" "I don't know. It frightens me. I cannot bear to look ahead for her, poor dear." "If she gets well she'll have to know, won't she, that Harry didn't go to war?" "Yes, and somehow--I couldn't stand her knowing that." "She'll know it some day, anyhow." "Yes, but then maybe where it will be easier for her to understand." On her own responsibility Lilly had employed this subterfuge with Mrs. Schum. Slowly as she came clutching back at consciousness, the name of her grandson more and more on her twisted lips, Lilly whispered it down to her, closing her hand over the tired old bony one. "Listen, dear Mrs. Schum, I've--news for you." "They're all against him--" "No, no, dear. While you've been so ill, what we had hoped for has happened. Harry's been accepted, dear--he's enlisted." She crinkled her brow, trying to understand. "They wouldn't take him. He wanted to fight for his country. They were all against him--" "No, no, dear. It's all different now. Since our country is at war Harry has been accepted. The boys were rushed overnight to training camp. Thousands of them. He came weeks ago to tell you good-by, but you were too ill to know. He's on a transport now, dear, sailing to fight for his country. Aren't you proud? Aren't we all proud?" The poor hands began to tremble, feeling their way up along Lilly's arm. "Harry's gone--to war?" "Y-yes--dear."