"No, from Polly's." "Then I can't imagine any excuse." "But you're a business man, not an imaginator," she railed. "You evidently don't know me. I'm 'Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy,' and also 'Joan of Arkansas,' and a few other patriots. I've got news for you that will melt the icicles off your eyebrows." "News?" he answered, with no curiosity modifying his anger. "War news. May I come down and tell you about it?" "This is a free country." "Fine! You're simply adorable when you try to sulk. What time would be most convenient?" "I make no more appointments with you, young woman." "All right. Then I'll wait at my shanty till you come." "I was going to rent it." "You just dare! I am coming back to work. The strike is over." "You'd better come to the office as soon as you get here." "All right. Give my love to Miss Gabus." She left the telephone and set about packing her things in a fury. Polly reminded her that she had appointments for fittings at dressmakers'. "I never keep appointments," said Mamise. "You can cancel them for me till this cruel war is over. Have the bills sent to me at the shipyard, will you, dear? Sorry to bother you, but I've barely time to catch my train." Polly called her a once unmentionable name that was coming into fashionable use after a long exile. Women had draped themselves in a certain animal's pelt with such freedom and grace for so many years that its name had lost enough of its impropriety to be spoken, and not too much to express disapproval. "You skunk!" said Polly. And Mamise laughed. Everything made her laugh now; she was so happy that she began to cry. "Why the crocodiles?" said Polly. "Because you're leaving me?" "No, I'm crying because I didn't realize how unhappy I had always been before I am as happy as I am now. I'm going to be useful at last, Polly. I'm going to do something for my country." She was sharing in that vast national ecstasy which is called patriotism and which turns the flames of martyrdom into roses. When Mamise reached the end of her journey she found Davidge waiting for her at the railroad station with a limousine. His manner was studiously insulting, but he was helplessly glad to see her, and the humiliation he had suffered from her failure to keep her engagements with him in Washington was canceled by the tribute of her return to him. The knot of his frown was solved by the mischief of her smile. He had to say: "Why didn't you meet me at luncheon?" "How could I prevent the Potomac from putting the old bridge out of commission?" she demanded. "I got there in time, but they wouldn't let me across, and by the time I reached the hotel you had gone, and I didn't know where to find you. Heaven knows I tried." The simplicity of this explanation deprived him of every excuse for further wrath, and he was not inspired to ask any further questions. He was capable of nothing better than a large and stupid: "Oh!" "Wait till you hear what I've got to tell you."