He was still dazed by what had happened to him--at the part he had unexpectedly played--dazed by the intense but well-ordered activity of the women: their management of his whirlwind tour of the city; their organization of parades with amazing swiftness; their rapid and complete house-to-house canvass--the work of Mrs. Herrington, of Betty, of that Miss Eliot, of hundreds of women--and especially of Genevieve. He marveled especially at Genevieve because he had never thought of Genevieve as doing such things. But she _had_ done them--he felt that somehow she was a different Genevieve: he didn't know what the difference was--he was in too much of a whirl for analysis--but he had an undefined sense of _aliveness_, of a spirited, joyous initiative in her. She and all the rest seemed so strange as to be unbelievable. And yet, she--and all of it--true!... From dramatic events and intangible qualities of the spirit, his consciousness shifted to material things--his immediate surroundings. Not till this blessed moment of relaxation did he become aware of the discomforts of this suite--nor did Genevieve fully appreciate the flamboyantly flowered maroon wall-paper and the jig-saw furniture. "George,"' she sighed, "now that you're not needed down here, can't we go home?" "Home!" The word came out half snort, half growl--hardly the tone becoming one whose triumph was so exultingly fresh. With a jar he had come back to a present which he fully understood. "Damn home! I haven't any home!" Genevieve stared. Uncle Martin snickered, for Uncle Martin had the gift of understanding. "You mean those flowers of womanhood whom chivalrous man----" "Shut up," commanded George. He thought for a brief space; then his jaw set. "Excuse me a moment." Drawing hotel stationery toward him, he scribbled rapidly and then sealed and addressed what he had written. "Uncle Martin, your car's outside doing nothing; would you mind going on ahead and giving this little note to Cousin Alys Brewster-Smith, and then staying around and having a little supper with Genevieve and me? We'll be out soon, but there are a few things I want to talk over with Genevieve alone before we come." Uncle Martin would oblige. But when he had gone, there seemed to be nothing of pressing importance that George had to communicate to Genevieve. Nor half an hour later, when he led his bride of four months up to their home, had he delivered himself of anything which seemed to require privacy. As they stepped up on the porch, softly lighted by a frosted bulb in its ceiling, Cousin Emelene, her cat under her arm, came out of the front door and hurried past them, without speech. "Why, Cousin Emelene!" George called after her. She paused and half turned. "You--you--" she half choked upon expletives that would not come forth. "The man will come for my trunks in the morning." Thrusting a handkerchief to her face, she hurried away. "George, what can have happened to her?" cried the amazed Genevieve.