“Tell Mrs. Birge I will wait for her after the meeting.” Thurley weakly dropped the gold piece she had intended for the boy into the offered hat. After the collection and another shower of pamphlets, Lorraine and her young Coldstream Guards marched off the platform to tack up placards asking for farmerettes and speakerettes to be pressed into service. Then Lorraine dashed over to Thurley—nothing left of the timid little person with a saddish look in her dove-colored eyes. She approached Thurley as hail-fellow well-met, holding out her hand cordially: “Well, Thurley, you’ve stolen a march on us. You would have been dragged up here to sing if I’d seen you ... isn’t it glorious?” She paused as if uncertain whether it was the war, the audience or Thurley’s frock. “I was going to call on you,” Thurley said gravely. “Come along—I drive the car now. Yes, indeed, I’m qualifying for an ambulance corps. Come on, girls—this is Thurley Precore who’ll boost the subscriptions a lot—you know these girls—Josie, Cora, Hazel—and, Owen, you stay behind and take in the platform and the barrel.” They piled into the muddied car while Lorraine whizzed them up the hill. Sentimental thoughts about entering Dan’s house, which was to have once been hers, took flight. This new and a trifle mad Lorraine commanded all of Thurley’s attention—and sense of humor. It was amusing to see the desperate way in which she strove to appear mannish, capable, immune to fears as to bumblebees or punctured tires, shouting out commands to her “crew,” the way the crew shouted back opinions and watched Thurley and her frock in semi-envy, semi-disapproval! They left the car before the door and went inside in breathless fashion. Lorraine walked up the pathway with Thurley. “How can you bury yourself here,” she asked, “when you could be speaking to crowds in New York? I’m going to get there—I can’t go overseas because of Dan.” She almost resented the interference! “I was tired—my head was in a whirl, the season seems a nightmare—” “Oh, not personal work—the cause we women have championed,” she opened the door as she spoke. “Where is your boy?” Thurley interrupted. “Oh, the love—I’ve a girl to take care of him, I couldn’t do both my war work and the boy.” Lorraine went upstairs, her absurd little boots tapping importantly. The young Coldstream Guardesses waited below, playing the Victrola and rummaging for a dish of fudge. A frowsly headed, sullen girl met them at the head of the stairs. “He’s bumped hisself again,” she said by way of greeting. “Then watch him more, Herta,” Lorraine was petulant. “Dear me, such a great lad ought to be more steady on his feet, I should think!” The disordered nursery exhibited traces of a large lunch which Herta had consumed, a novel spread face downward, also for Herta, and the outlines of Herta’s recumbent form on the divan. Thurley’s face was disapproving as she said swiftly: “If I were a detective, I could explain why the Boy bumped himself!”