Of course they were all going overseas—heavens, yes, why Josie and Hazel had their passports and were waiting further orders—didn’t Thurley pine to go and sing? Fancy any one’s not going if they could ... they were all going to keep a diary and take a camera, lots of people had smuggled pictures through, they just knew they had. Owen Pringle was going too—he was so jolly and his mother was related to a senator and it had all been arranged for him—these old fogies who said people had better stay home and ’tend to their knitting, who listened to them?—at least, not until it was over ... just think of the adventures, the sea trip and the chance of being submarined, every one said there were lots of life boats—and the chance to learn French and the friends they would make, particularly moving picture men. Every one said Cora Spooner was as good as Nazimova, only she needed an introduction among the professional set, while the ideas for Josie’s war stories—well, all the editors would be cabling her! Josie’s mother would have to do the housework because the help had all gone to the munition plants and her aunt’s eyes had failed terribly—but of course their day was over and it was Josie’s turn to find adventures. Besides, she would lose weight. There was an incentive—she did hate being called Fatty at all the parties. As for Hazel Mitchell—any one who knew what a wonderful godmother Hazel had been to several Tommies—and what beautiful little things she could do to make every one happy—well, Hazel would walk in and literally back melancholy against the ropes. Of course Lorraine had to stay at home—but she was certainly going to try to speak in larger cities—she wanted to be as much of the great cause as she could be— Despite the clatter of tongues, Boy’s dark little head drooped wearily and he slept the exhausted sleep of a neglected hysteric who feels the sympathetic throb of a woman’s breast and can afford to ignore brainless chatter. Lorraine took Thurley home. The lieutenants were all to stay for tea and start out on an evening campaign. “We’ll have a canned supper—and candy,” she said. “I do think I’ve been a goose to drudge so in the kitchen—but no more of it.” “And when Dan comes home?” Thurley asked in spite of herself. “The old dear will be so used to soldiers’ fare he’ll think mine perfection.... Good-by, Thurley, do change your mind and give us a benefit sing. Don’t worry about Boy, he is all right, I weigh him every week and I am afraid I’ll lose Herta if I find too much fault—” Ali Baba was working in the backyard and Thurley fled with relief to find him busied with currant bushes. “Ali Baba,” she said, stamping her foot, “look at me—tell me, do you see war-madness in my eyes?” He leaned on his hand cultivator reflectively. “War madness? Land sakes and Mrs. Davis, that’s a new one—”