She was excited when she had decided to do this. It lifted her out of the nothingness. From this meager thing her great need could in a way create the feeling that she was going to meet Howie. Once more she would see him do that thing which was so like him as to bring him back into life. _Why_ should she turn from it? What were all the other things compared with this thing? This was one little flash of life in a world that had ceased to be alive. So again that night, in the clothes he had most liked, she went for that poor little meeting with her husband--so pitifully little, and yet so tremendous because it was all she would ever have. Again she sat in a big, noisy place with many jostling, laughing people--and waited to see Howie. She forgot that the place had ugly red walls and sickly green lights; she could somehow separate herself from harsh voices and smells--for she was here to meet Howie! She knew just the part of the house to sit in. Once she had sat where she couldn't see him as he passed from sight! After that she had always come very early. So she had to sit there while other people were coming in. But she didn't much mind that; it was like sitting in a crowded railway station when the person you love is coming soon. But suddenly something reached over that gulf between other people and her. A word. A terrible word. Behind her some one said "munitions." She put her hand to her eyes and pressed tight. Not to _see_. That was why she had to keep coming for this look at Howie. She had to see _him_--that she might shut out _that_--the picture of Howie--_blown into pieces_.