The Gay Old Dog

by Edna Ferber

　　Those of you who have dwelt--or even lingered--in Chicago,Illinois, are familiar with the region known as the Loop. Forthose others of you to whom Chicago is a transfer point betweenNew York and California there is presented this briefexplanation:The Loop is a clamorous, smoke-infested district embraced by theiron arms of the elevated tracks. In a city boasting fewermillions, it would be known familiarly as downtown. FromCongress to Lake Street, from Wabash almost to the river, thosethunderous tracks make a complete circle, or loop. Within it liethe retail shops, the commercial hotels, the theaters, therestaurants. It is the Fifth Avenue and the Broadway of Chicago.And he who frequents it by night in search of amusement and cheeris known, vulgarly, as a Loop-hound.Jo Hertz was a Loop-hound. On the occasion of those sparse firstnights granted the metropolis of the Middle West he was alwayspresent, third row, aisle, left. When a new Loop cafe' wasopened, Jo's table always commanded an unobstructed view ofanything worth viewing. On entering he was wont to say, "Hello,Gus," with careless cordiality to the headwaiter, the while hiseye roved expertly from table to table as he removed his gloves.He ordered things under glass, so that his table, at midnight orthereabouts, resembled a hotbed that favors the bell system. Thewaiters fought for him. He was the kind of man who mixes his ownsalad dressing. He liked to call for a bowl, some cracked ice,lemon, garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil and make arite of it. People at near-by tables would lay down their knivesand forks to watch, fascinated. The secret of it seemed to liein using all the oil in sight and calling for more.That was Jo--a plump and lonely bachelor of fifty. A plethoric,roving- eyed, and kindly man, clutching vainly at the garments ofa youth that had long slipped past him. Jo Hertz, in one ofthose pinch-waist suits and a belted coat and a little green hat,walking up Michigan Avenue of a bright winter's afternoon, tryingto take the curb with a jaunty youthfulness against which everyone of his fat-encased muscles rebelled, was a sight for mirth orpity, depending on one's vision.The gay-dog business was a late phase in the life of Jo Hertz.He had been a quite different sort of canine. The staid andharassed brother of three unwed and selfish sisters is anunderdog.At twenty-seven Jo had been the dutiful, hard-working son (in thewholesale harness business) of a widowed and gummidging mother,who called him Joey. Now and then a double wrinkle would appearbetween Jo's eyes--a wrinkle that had no business there attwenty-seven. Then Jo's mother died, leaving him handicapped bya deathbed promise, the three sisters, and athree-story-and-basement house on Calumet Avenue. Jo's wrinklebecame a fixture."Joey," his mother had said, in her high, thin voice, "takecare of the girls.""I will, Ma," Jo had choked."Joey," and the voice was weaker, "promise me you won't marrytill the girls are all provided for." Then as Jo had hesitated,appalled: "Joey, it's my dying wish. Promise!""I promise, Ma," he had said.Whereupon his mother had died, comfortably, leaving him with acompletely ruined life.They were not bad-looking girls, and they had a certain style,too. That is, Stell and Eva had. Carrie, the middle one, taughtschool over on the West Side. In those days it took her almosttwo hours each way. She said the kind of costume she requiredshould have been corrugated steel. But all three knew what wasbeing worn, and they wore it--or fairly faithful copies of it.Eva, the housekeeping sister, had a needle knack. She could skimthe State Street windows and come away with a mental photographof every separate tuck, hem, yoke, and ribbon. Heads ofdepartments showed her the things they kept in drawers, and shewent home and reproduced them with the aid of a seamstress by theday. Stell, the youngest, was the beauty. They called her Babe.Twenty-three years ago one's sisters did not strain at thehousehold leash, nor crave a career. Carrie taught school, andhated it. Eva kept house expertly and complainingly. Babe'sprofession was being the family beauty, and it took all her sparetime. Eva always let her sleep until ten.This was Jo's household, and he was the nominal head of it. Butit was an empty title. The three women dominated his life. Theyweren't con- sciously selfish. If you had called them cruel theywould have put you down as mad. When you are the lone brother ofthree sisters, it means that you must constantly be calling for,escorting, or dropping one of them somewhere. Most men of Jo'sage were standing before their mirror of a Saturday night,whistling blithely and abstractedly while they discarded a bluepolka-dot for a maroon tie, whipped off the maroon for ashot-silk and at the last moment decided against the shot-silk infavor of a plain black-and-white because she had once said shepreferred quiet ties. Jo, when he should have been preening hisfeathers for conquest, was saying:"Well, my God, I AM hurrying! Give a man time, can't you? Ijust got home. You girls been laying around the house all day.No wonder you're ready."He took a certain pride in seeing his sisters well dressed, at atime when he should have been reveling in fancy waistcoats andbrilliant-hued socks, according to the style of that day and theinalienable right of any unwed male under thirty, in any day. Onthose rare occasions when his business necessitated anout-of-town trip, he would spend half a day floundering about theshops selecting handkerchiefs, or stockings, or feathers, orgloves for the girls. They always turned out to be the wrongkind, judging by their reception.From Carrie, "What in the world do I want of long whitegloves!""I thought you didn't have any," Jo would say."I haven't. I never wear evening clothes."Jo would pass a futile hand over the top of his head, as was hisway when disturbed. "I just thought you'd like them. I thoughtevery girl liked long white gloves. Just," feebly, "justto--to have.""Oh, for pity's sake!"And from Eva or Babe, "I've GOT silk stockings, Jo." Or, "Youbrought me handkerchiefs the last time."There was something selfish in his giving, as there always is inany gift freely and joyfully made. They never suspected theexquisite pleasure it gave him to select these things, thesefine, soft, silken things. There were many things about thisslow-going, amiable brother of theirs that they never suspected.If you had told them he was a dreamer of dreams, for example,they would have been amused. Sometimes, dead-tired by nineo'clock after a hard day downtown, he would doze over the eveningpaper. At intervals he would wake, red-eyed, to a snatch ofconversation such as, "Yes, but if you get a blue you can wearit anywhere. It's dressy, and at the same time it's quiet,too." Eva, the expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problemof the new spring dress. They never guessed that the com-monplace man in the frayed old smoking jacket had banished themall from the room long ago; had banished himself, for thatmatter. In his place was a tall, debonair, and ratherdangerously handsome man to whom six o'clock spelled eveningclothes. The kind of man who can lean up against a mantel, orpropose a toast, or give an order to a manservant, or whisper agallant speech in a lady's ear with equal ease. The shabby oldhouse on Calumet Avenue was transformed into a brocaded andchandeliered rendezvous for the brilliance of the city. Beautywas here, and wit. But none so beautiful and witty as She.Mrs.--er--Jo Hertz. There was wine, of course; but no vulgardisplay. There was music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter.And he, the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain----"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore, go to bed!""Why--did I fall asleep?""You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A personwould think you were fifty instead of thirty."And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, commonplace brotherof three well-meaning sisters.Babe used to say petulantly, "Jo, why don't you ever bring homeany of your men friends? A girl might as well not have anybrother, all the good you do."Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a manwho has been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow,of comradeship with men.One Sunday in May Jo came home from a late-Sunday-afternoon walkto find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of herschoolteacher friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, oreven Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type. There was always aSunday-night supper of potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee,and perhaps a fresh cake. Jo rather enjoyed it, being ahospitable soul. But he regarded the guests with the undazzledeyes of a man to whom they were just so many petticoats, timid ofthe night streets and requiring escort home. If you hadsuggested to him that some of his sisters' popularity was due tohis own presence, or if you had hinted that the more kittenish ofthese visitors were probably making eyes at him, he would havestared in amazement and unbelief.This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's friends."Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo."Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie's friends. Drab-lookingwomen in the late thirties, whose facial lines all slanteddownward."Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a differentsort altogether. A most surprisingly different sort, for one ofCarrie's friends. This Emily person was very small, and fluffy,and blue-eyed, and crinkly looking. The corners of her mouth whenshe smiled, and her eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair,which was brown, but had the miraculous effect, somehow, oflooking golden.Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly small, andsoft, so that you were afraid of crushing it, until youdiscovered she had a firm little grip all her own. It surprisedand amused you, that grip, as does a baby's unexpected clutch onyour patronizing forefinger. As Jo felt it in his own big clasp,the strangest thing happened to him. Something inside Jo Hertzstopped working for a moment, then lurched sickeningly, thenthumped like mad. It was his heart. He stood staring down ather, and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then theirhands fell apart, lingeringly."Are you a schoolteacher, Emily?" he said."Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me Emily,please.""Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest name inthe world." Which he hadn't meant to say at all. In fact, hewas perfectly aghast to find himself saying it. But he meant it.At supper he passed her things, and stared, until everybodylaughed again, and Eva said acidly, "Why don't you feed her?"It wasn't that Emily had an air of helplessness. She just madehim feel he wanted her to be helpless, so that he could help her.Jo took her home, and from that Sunday night he began to strainat the leash. He took his sisters out, dutifully, but he wouldsuggest, with a carelessness that deceived no one, "Don't youwant one of your girl friends to come along? That littleWhat's-her-name-Emily, or something. So long's I've got three ofyou, I might as well have a full squad."For a long time he didn't know what was the matter with him. Heonly knew he was miserable, and yet happy. Sometimes his heartseemed to ache with an actual physical ache. He realized that hewanted to do things for Emily. He wanted to buy things forEmily--useless, pretty, expensive things that he couldn't afford.He wanted to buy everything that Emily needed, and everythingthat Emily desired. He wanted to marry Emily. That was it. Hediscovered that one day, with a shock, in the midst of atransaction in the harness business. He stared at the man withwhom he was dealing until that startled person grewuncomfortable. "What's the matter, Hertz?" "Matter?" "Youlook as if you'd seen a ghost or found a gold mine. I don't knowwhich." "Gold mine," said Jo. And then, "No. Ghost." Forhe remembered that high, thin voice, and his promise. And theharness business was slithering downhill with dreadful rapidity,as the automobile business began its amazing climb. Jo tried tostop it. But he was not that kind of businessman. It neveroccurred to him to jump out of the down-going vehicle and catchthe up-going one. He stayed on, vainly applying brakes thatrefused to work. "You know, Emily, I couldn't support twohouseholds now. Not the way things are. But if you'll wait. Ifyou'll only wait. The girls might--that is, Babe and Carrie--"She was a sensible little thing, Emily. "Of course I'll wait.But we mustn't just sit back and let the years go by. We've gotto help."She went about it as if she were already a little matchmakingmatron. She corralled all the men she had ever known andintroduced them to Babe, Carrie, and Eva separately, in pairs,and en masse. She got up picnics. She stayed home while Jo tookthe three about. When she was present she tried to look as plainand obscure as possible, so that the sisters should show up toadvantage. She schemed, and planned, and contrived, and hoped;and smiled into Jo's despairing eyes.And three years went by. Three precious years. Carrie stilltaught school, and hated it. Eva kept house more and morecomplainingly as prices advanced and allowance retreated. Stellwas still Babe, the family beauty. Emily's hair, somehow, lostits glint and began to look just plain brown. Her crinklinessbegan to iron out."Now, look here!" Jo argued, desperately, one night. "Wecould be happy, anyway. There's plenty of room at the house.Lots of people begin that way. Of course, I couldn't give youall I'd like to, at first. But maybe, after a while--" Nodreams of salons, and brocade, and velvet-footed servitors, andsatin damask now. Just two rooms, all their own, all alone, andEmily to work for. That was his dream. But it seemed lesspossible than that other absurd one had been.Emily was as practical a little thing as she looked fluffy. Sheknew women. Especially did she know Eva, and Carrie, and Babe.She tried to imagine herself taking the household affairs and thehousekeeping pocket- book out of Eva's expert hands. So then shetried to picture herself allowing the reins of Jo's house toremain in Eva's hands. And everything feminine and normal in herrebelled. Emily knew she'd want to put away her own freshlylaundered linen, and smooth it, and pat it. She was that kind ofwoman. She knew she'd want to do her own delightful hagglingwith butcher and grocer. She knew she'd want to muss Jo's hair,and sit on his knee, and even quarrel with him, if necessary,without the awareness of three ever-present pairs of maiden eyesand ears."No! No! We'd only be miserable. I know. Even if they didn'tobject. And they would, Jo. Wouldn't they?"His silence was miserable assent. Then, "But you do love me.don't you, Emily?""I do, Jo. I love you--and love you--and love you. But, Jo,I--can't.""I know it, dear. I knew it all the time, really. I justthought, maybe, somehow----"The two sat staring for a moment into space, their hands clasped.Then they both shut their eyes with a little shudder, as thoughwhat they saw was terrible to look upon. Emily's hand, the tinyhand that was so unexpectedly firm, tightened its hold on his,and his crushed the absurd fingers until she winced with pain.That was the beginning of the end, and they knew it.Emily wasn't the kind of girl who would be left to pine. Thereare too many Jos in the world whose hearts are prone to lurch andthen thump at the feel of a soft, fluttering, incredibly smallhand in their grip. One year later Emily was married to a youngman whose father owned a large, pie- shaped slice of theprosperous state of Michigan.That being safely accomplished, there was something grimlyhumorous in the trend taken by affairs in the old house onCalumet. For Eva married. Married well, too, though he was agreat deal older than she. She went off in a hat she had copiedfrom a French model at Field's, and a suit she had contrived witha home dressmaker, aided by pressing on the part of the littletailor in the basement over on Thirty-first Street. It was thelast of that, though. The next time they saw her, she had on ahat that even she would have despaired of copying, and a suitthat sort of melted into your gaze. She moved to the North Side(trust Eva for that), and Babe assumed the management of thehousehold on Calumet Avenue. It was rather a pinched littlehousehold now, for the harness business shrank and shrank."I don't see how you can expect me to keep house decently onthis!" Babe would say contemptuously. Babe's nose, always alittle inclined to sharpness, had whittled down to a point oflate. "If you knew what Ben gives Eva.""It's the best I can do, Sis. Business is something rotten.""Ben says if you had the least bit of----" Ben was Eva'shusband, and quotable, as are all successful men."I don't care what Ben says," shouted Jo, goaded into rage."I'm sick of your everlasting Ben. Go and get a Ben of yourown, why don't you, if you're so stuck on the way he doesthings."And Babe did. She made a last desperate drive, aided by Eva, andshe captured a rather surprised young man in the brokerage way,who had made up his mind not to marry for years and years. Evawanted to give her her wedding things, but at that Jo broke intosudden rebellion."No, sir! No Ben is going to buy my sister's wedding clothes,understand? I guess I'm not broke--yet. I'll furnish the moneyfor her things, and there'll be enough of them, too." Babe hadas useless a trousseau, and as filled with extravagant pink-and-blue and lacy and frilly things, as any daughter of dotingparents. Jo seemed to find a grim pleasure in providing them.But it left him pretty well pinched. After Babe's marriage (sheinsisted that they call her Estelle now) Jo sold the house onCalumet. He and Carrie took one of those little flats that werespringing up, seemingly overnight, all through Chicago's SouthSide.There was nothing domestic about Carrie. She had given upteaching two years before, and had gone into social-service workon the West Side. She had what is known as a legal mind--hard,clear, orderly--and she made a great success of it. Her dreamwas to live at the Settlement House and give all her time to thework. Upon the little household she bestowed a certain amount ofgrim, capable attention. It was the same kind of attention shewould have given a piece of machinery whose oiling and runninghad been entrusted to her care. She hated it, and didn'thesitate to say so.Jo took to prowling about department-store basements, andhousehold goods sections. He was always sending home a bargainin a ham, or a sack of potatoes, or fifty pounds of sugar, or awindow clamp, or a new kind of paring knife. He was foreverdoing odd jobs that the janitor should have done. It was thedomestic in him claiming its own.Then, one night, Carrie came home with a dull glow in herleathery cheeks, and her eyes alight with resolve. They had whatshe called a plain talk."Listen, Jo. They've offered me the job of first assistantresident worker. And I'm going to take it. Take it! I knowfifty other girls who'd give their ears for it. I go in nextmonth."They were at dinner. Jo looked up from his plate, dully. Thenhe glanced around the little dining room, with its ugly tan wallsand its heavy, dark furniture (the Calumet Avenue pieces fittedcumbersomely into the five-room flat)."Away? Away from here, you mean--to live?"Carrie laid down her fork. "Well, really, Jo! After all thatexplanation.""But to go over there to live! Why, that neighborhood's full ofdirt, and disease, and crime, and the Lord knows what all. Ican't let you do that, Carrie."Carrie's chin came up. She laughed a short little laugh. "Letme! That's eighteenth-century talk, Jo. My life's my own tolive. I'm going."And she went.Jo stayed on in the apartment until the lease was up. Then hesold what furniture he could, stored or gave away the rest, andtook a room on Michigan Avenue in one of the old stone mansionswhose decayed splendor was being put to such purpose.Jo Hertz was his own master. Free to marry. Free to come andgo. And he found he didn't even think of marrying. He didn'teven want to come or go, particularly. A rather frumpy oldbachelor, with thinning hair and a thickening neck.Every Thursday evening he took dinner at Eva's, and on Sundaynoon at Stell's. He tucked his napkin under his chin and openlyenjoyed the homemade soup and the well-cooked meats. Afterdinner he tried to talk business with Eva's husband, or Stell's.His business talks were the old- fashioned kind, beginning:"Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rinstance, your raw hides andleathers."But Ben and George didn't want to take, f'rinstance, your rawhides and leathers. They wanted, when they took anything at all,to take golf, or politics, or stocks. They were the modern typeof businessman who prefers to leave his work out of his play.Business, with them, was a profession-- a finely graded andbalanced thing, differing from Jo's clumsy, down- hill style ascompletely as does the method of a great criminal detectivediffer from that of a village constable. They would listen,restively, and say, "Uh-uh," at intervals, and at the firstchance they would sort of fade out of the room, with a meaningglance at their wives. Eva had two children now. Girls. Theytreated Uncle Jo with good-natured tolerance. Stell had nochildren. Uncle Jo degenerated, by almost imperceptible degrees,from the position of honored guest, who is served with whitemeat, to that of one who is content with a leg and one of thoseobscure and bony sections which, after much turning with abewildered and investigating knife and fork, leave one baffledand unsatisfied.Eva and Stell got together and decided that Jo ought to marry."It isn't natural," Eva told him. "I never saw a man who tookso little interest in women.""Me!" protested Jo, almost shyly. "Women!""Yes. Of course. You act like a frightened schoolboy."So they had in for dinner certain friends and acquaintances offitting age. They spoke of them as "splendid girls." Betweenthirty-six and forty. They talked awfully well, in a firm, clearway, about civics, and classes, and politics, and economics, andboards. They rather terrified Jo. He didn't understand muchthat they talked about, and he felt humbly inferior, and yet alittle resentful, as if something had passed him by. He escortedthem home, dutifully, though they told him not to bother, andthey evidently meant it. They seemed capable not only of goinghome quite unattended but of delivering a pointed lecture to anyhighwayman or brawler who might molest them.The following Thursday Eva would say, "How did you like her,Jo?""Like who?" Joe would spar feebly."Miss Matthews.""Who's she?""Now, don't be funny, Jo. You know very well I mean the girl whowas here for dinner. The one who talked so well on theemigration question.""Oh, her! Why, I liked her all right. Seems to be a smartwoman.""Smart! She's a perfectly splendid girl.""Sure," Jo would agree cheerfully."But didn't you like her?""I can't say I did, Eve. And I can't say I didn't. She made methink a lot of a teacher I had in the fifth reader. Name ofHimes. As I recall her, she must have been a fine woman. But Inever thought of Himes as a woman at all. She was justTeacher.""You make me tired," snapped Eva impatiently. "A man of yourage. You don't expect to marry a girl, do you? A child!""I don't expect to marry anybody," Jo had answered.And that was the truth, lonely though he often was.The following spring Eva moved to Winnetka. Anyone who got themeaning of the Loop knows the significance of a move to a NorthShore suburb, and a house. Eva's daughter, Ethel, was growingup, and her mother had an eye on society.That did away with Jo's Thursday dinners. Then Stell's husbandbought a car. They went out into the country every Sunday.Stell said it was getting so that maids objected to Sundaydinners, anyway. Besides, they were unhealthful, old-fashionedthings. They always meant to ask Jo to come along, but by thetime their friends were placed, and the lunch, and the boxes, andsweaters, and George's camera, and everything, there seemed to beno room for a man of Jo's bulk. So that eliminated the Sundaydinners."Just drop in any time during the week," Stell said, "fordinner. Except Wednesday--that's our bridge night--and Saturday.And, of course, Thursday. Cook is out that night. Don't wait forme to phone."And so Jo drifted into that sad-eyed, dyspeptic family made up ofthose you see dining in second-rate restaurants, their paperpropped up against the bowl of oyster crackers, munching solemnlyand with indifference to the stare of the passer-by surveyingthem through the brazen plate-glass window.And then came the war. The war that spelled death anddestruction to millions. The war that brought a fortune to JoHertz, and transformed him, overnight, from a baggy-kneed oldbachelor whose business was a failure to a prosperousmanufacturer whose only trouble was the shortage in hides for themaking of his product. Leather! The armies of Europe called forit. Harnesses! More harnesses! Straps! Millions of straps.More! More!The musty old harness business over on Lake Street was magicallychanged from a dust-covered, dead-alive concern to an orderlyhive that hummed and glittered with success. Orders poured in.Jo Hertz had inside information on the war. He knew about troopsand horses. He talked with French and English and Italian buyerscommissioned by their countries to get American-made supplies.And now, when he said to Ben or George, "Take, f'rinstance, yourraw hides and leathers," they listened with respectfulattention.And then began the gay-dog business in the life of Jo Hertz. Hedeveloped into a Loop-hound, ever keen on the scent of freshpleasure. That side of Jo Hertz which had been repressed andcrushed and ignored began to bloom, unhealthily. At first hespent money on his rather contemptuous nieces. He sent themgorgeous furs, and watch bracelets, and bags. He took twoexpensive rooms at a downtown hotel, and there was something moretear-compelling than grotesque about the way he gloated over theluxury of a separate ice-water tap in the bathroom. He explainedit."Just turn it on. Any hour of the day or night. Ice water!"He bought a car. Naturally. A glittering affair; in color abright blue, with pale-blue leather straps and a great deal ofgold fittings, and special tires. Eva said it was the kind ofthing a chorus girl would use, rather than an elderlybusinessman. You saw him driving about in it, red-faced andrather awkward at the wheel. You saw him, too, in the PompeianRoom at the Congress Hotel of a Saturday afternoon whenroving-eyed matrons in mink coats are wont to congregate to sippale-amber drinks. Actors grew to recognize the semibald head andthe shining, round, good- natured face looming out at them fromthe dim well of the theater, and sometimes, in a musical show,they directed a quip at him, and he liked it. He could pick outthe critics as they came down the aisle, and even had a noddingacquaintance with two of them."Kelly, of the Herald," he would say carelessly. "Bean. ofthe Trib. They're all afraid of him."So he frolicked, ponderously. In New York he might have beencalled a Man About Town.And he was lonesome. He was very lonesome. So he searched aboutin his mind and brought from the dim past the memory of theluxuriously furnished establishment of which he used to dream inthe evenings when he dozed over his paper in the old house onCalumet. So he rented an apartment, many-roomed and expensive,with a manservant in charge, and furnished it in styles andperiods ranging through all the Louis. The living room wasmostly rose color. It was like an unhealthy and bloated boudoir.And yet there was nothing sybaritic or uncleanly in the sight ofthis paunchy, middle-aged man sinking into the rosy-cushionedluxury of his ridiculous home. It was a frank and naiveindulgence of long-starved senses, and there was in it a greatresemblance to the rolling-eyed ecstasy of a schoolboy smackinghis lips over an all-day sucker.The war went on, and on, and on. And the money continued to rollin-- a flood of it. Then, one afternoon, Eva, in town onshopping bent, entered a small, exclusive, and expensive shop onMichigan Avenue. Eva's weakness was hats. She was seeking a hatnow. She described what she sought with a languid conciseness,and stood looking about her after the saleswoman had vanished inquest of it. The room was becomingly rose-illumined and somewhatdim, so that some minutes had passed before she realized that aman seated on a raspberry brocade settee not five feet away-- aman with a walking stick, and yellow gloves, and tan spats, and acheck suit--was her brother Jo. From him Eva's wild-eyed glanceleaped to the woman who was trying on hats before one of the manylong mirrors. She was seated, and a saleswoman was exclaimingdiscreetly at her elbow.Eva turned sharply and encountered her own saleswoman returninghat-laden. "Not today," she gasped. "I'm feeling ill.Suddenly." And almost ran from the room.That evening she told Stell, relating her news in that telephonepidgin English devised by every family of married sisters asprotection against the neighbors. Translated, it ran thus:"He looked straight at me. My dear, I thought I'd die! But atleast he had sense enough not to speak. She was one of thoselimp, willowy creatures with the greediest eyes that she tried tokeep softened to a baby stare, and couldn't, she was so crazy toget her hands on those hats. I saw it all in one awful minute.You know the way I do. I suppose some people would call herpretty. I don't. And her color. Well! And the most expensive-looking hats. Not one of them under seventy-five. Isn't itdisgusting! At his age! Suppose Ethel had been with me!"The next time it was Stell who saw them. In a restaurant. Shesaid it spoiled her evening. And the third time it was Ethel.She was one of the guests at a theater party given by NickyOverton II. The North Shore Overtons. Lake Forest. They camein late, and occupied the entire third row at the openingperformance of Believe Me! And Ethel was Nicky's partner. Shewas glowing like a rose. When the lights went up after the firstact Ethel saw that her uncle Jo was seated just ahead of her withwhat she afterward described as a blonde. Then her uncle hadturned around, and seeing her, had been surprised into a smilethat spread genially all over his plump and rubicund face. Thenhe had turned to face forward again, quickly."Who's the old bird?" Nicky had asked. Ethel had pretended notto hear, so he had asked again."My uncle," Ethel answered, and flushed all over her delicateface, and down to her throat. Nicky had looked at the blonde,and his eyebrows had gone up ever so slightly.It spoiled Ethel's evening. More than that, as she told hermother of it later, weeping, she declared it had spoiled herlife.Eva talked it over with her husband in that intimate hour thatprecedes bedtime. She gesticulated heatedly with her hairbrush."It's disgusting, that's what it is. Perfectly disgusting.There's no fool like an old fool. Imagine! A creature likethat. At his time of life.""Well, I don't know," Ben said, and even grinned a little. "Isuppose a boy's got to sow his wild oats sometime.""Don't be any more vulgar than you can help," Eva retorted."And I think you know, as well as I, what it means to have thatOverton boy interested in Ethel.""If he's interested in her," Ben blundered, "I guess the factthat Ethel's uncle went to the theater with someone who isn'tEthel's aunt won't cause a shudder to run up and down his frailyoung frame, will it?""All right," Eva had retorted. "If you're not man enough tostop it, I'll have to, that's all. I'm going up there with Stellthis week."They did not notify Jo of their coming. Eva telephoned hisapartment when she knew he would be out, and asked his man if heexpected his master home to dinner that evening. The man hadsaid yes. Eva arranged to meet Stell in town. They would driveto Jo's apartment together, and wait for him there.When she reached the city Eva found turmoil there. The first ofthe American troops to be sent to France were leaving. MichiganBoulevard was a billowing, surging mass: flags, pennants,banners, crowds. All the elements that make for demonstration.And over the whole-quiet. No holiday crowd, this. A solid,determined mass of people waiting patient hours to see thekhaki-clads go by. Three years had brought them to a clearknowledge of what these boys were going to."Isn't it dreadful!" Stell gasped."Nicky Overton's too young, thank goodness."Their car was caught in the jam. When they moved at all, it wasby inches. When at last they reached Jo's apartment they wereflushed, nervous, apprehensive. But he had not yet come in. Sothey waited.No, they were not staying to dinner with their brother, they toldthe relieved houseman.Stell and Eva, sunk in rose-colored cushions, viewed the placewith disgust and some mirth. They rather avoided each other'seyes."Carrie ought to be here," Eva said. They both smiled at thethought of the austere Carrie in the midst of those rosycushions, and hangings, and lamps. Stell rose and began to walkabout restlessly. She picked up a vase and laid it down;straightened a picture. Eva got up, too, and wandered into thehall. She stood there a moment, listening. Then she turned andpassed into Jo's bedroom, Stell following. And there you knew Jofor what he was.This room was as bare as the other had been ornate. It was Jo,the clean-minded and simplehearted, in revolt against the cloyingluxury with which he had surrounded himself. The bedroom, of allrooms in any house, reflects the personality of its occupant.True, the actual furniture was paneled, cupid-surmounted, andridiculous. It had been the fruit of Jo's first orgy of thesenses. But now it stood out in that stark little room with anair as incongruous and ashamed as that of a pink tarlatandanseuse who finds herself in a monk's cell. None of those wallpictures with which bachelor bedrooms are reputed to be hung. Nosatin slippers. No scented notes. Two plain-backed militarybrushes on the chiffonier (and he so nearly hairless!). A littleorderly stack of books on the table near the bed. Eva fingeredtheir titles and gave a little gasp. One of them was ongardening."Well, of all things!" exclaimed Stell. A book on the war, byan Englishman. A detective story of the lurid type that lulls usto sleep. His shoes ranged in a careful row in the closet, witha shoe tree in every one of them. There was something speakingabout them. They looked so human. Eva shut the door on themquickly. Some bottles on the dresser. A jar of pomade. Anointment such as a man uses who is growing bald and is panic-stricken too late. An insurance calendar on the wall. Somerhubarb-and- soda mixture on the shelf in the bathroom, and alittle box of pepsin tablets."Eats all kinds of things at all hours of the night," Eva said,and wandered out into the rose-colored front room again with theair of one who is chagrined at her failure to find what she hassought. Stell followed her furtively."Where do you suppose he can be?" she demanded. "It's"--sheglanced at her wrist--"why, it's after six!"And then there was a little click. The two women sat up, tense.The door opened. Jo came in. He blinked a little. The twowomen in the rosy room stood up."Why--Eve! Why, Babe! Well! Why didn't you let me know?""We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't cominghome."Jo came in slowly."I was in the jam on Michigan, watching the boys go by." Hesat down, heavily. The light from the window fell on him. Andyou saw that his eyes were red.He had found himself one of the thousands in the jam on MichiganAvenue, as he said. He had a place near the curb, where his bigframe shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. Hewaited with the placid interest of one who has subscribed to allthe funds and societies to which a prosperous, middle-agedbusinessman is called upon to subscribe in war-time. Then, justas he was about to leave, impatient at the delay, the crowd hadcried, with a queer, dramatic, exultant note in its voice, "Herethey come! Here come the boys!"Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists began tobeat a mad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. Jo tried to turn inthe crowd, all indignant resentment. "Say, looka here!"The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. Anda voice--a choked, high little voice--cried, "Let me by! Ican't see! You MAN, you! You big fat man! My boy's going by--towar--and I can't see! Let me by!"Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked down.And upturned to him in agonized appeal was the face of Emily.They stared at each other for what seemed a long, long time. Itwas really only the fraction of a second. Then Jo put one greatarm firmly around Emily's waist and swung her around in front ofhim. His great bulk protected her. Emily was clinging to hishand. She was breathing rapidly, as if she had been running.Her eyes were straining up the street."Why, Emily, how in the world----!""I ran away. Fred didn't want me to come. He said it wouldexcite me too much.""Fred?""My husband. He made me promise to say good-by to Jo at home.""Jo?""Jo's my boy. And he's going to war. So I ran away. I had tosee him. I had to see him go."She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the street."Why, sure," said Jo. "Of course you want to see him." Andthen the crowd gave a great roar. There came over Jo a feelingof weakness. He was trembling. The boys went marching by."There he is," Emily shrilled, above the din. "There he is!There he is! There he----" And waved a futile little hand. Itwasn't so much a wave as a clutching. A clutching aftersomething beyond her reach."Which one? Which one, Emily?""The handsome one. The handsome one." Her voice quavered anddied.Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him out," hecommanded "Show me." And the next instant, "Never mind. Isee him."Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds.Had picked him as surely as his own father might have. It wasEmily's boy. He was marching by, rather stiffly. He wasnineteen, and fun-loving, and he had a girl, and he didn'tparticularly want to go to France and--to go to France. But morethan he had hated going, he had hated not to go. So he marchedby, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so that his chin stuckout just a little. Emily's boy.Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His eyes, thehard-boiled eyes of a Loop-hound, took on the look of a sad oldman. And suddenly he was no longer Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz,the gay dog. He was Jo Hertz, thirty, in love with life, in lovewith Emily, and with the stinging blood of young manhood coursingthrough his veins.Another minute and the boy had passed on up the broad street--thefine, flag-bedecked street--just one of a hundred service hatsbobbing in rhythmic motion like sandy waves lapping a shore andflowing on.Then he disappeared altogether.Emily was clinging to Jo. She was mumbling something, over andover. "I can't. I can't. Don't ask me to. I can't let him go.Like that. I can't."Jo said a queer thing."Why, Emily! We wouldn't have him stay home, would we? Wewouldn't want him to do anything different, would we? Not ourboy. I'm glad he enlisted. I'm proud of him. So are youglad."Little by little he quieted her. He took her to the car that waswaiting, a worried chauffeur in charge. They said good-by,awkwardly. Emily's face was a red, swollen mass.So it was that when Jo entered his own hallway half an hour laterhe blinked, dazedly, and when the light from the window fell onhim you saw that his eyes were red.Eva was not one to beat about the bush. She sat forward in herchair, clutching her bag rather nervously."Now, look here, Jo. Stell and I are here for a reason. We'rehere to tell you that this thing's going to stop.""Thing? Stop?""You know very well what I mean. You saw me at the milliner'sthat day. And night before last, Ethel. We're all disgusted.If you must go about with people like that, please have somesense of decency."Something gathering in Jo's face should have warned her. But hewas slumped down in his chair in such a huddle, and he looked soold and fat that she did not heed it. She went on. "You've gotus to consider. Your sisters. And your nieces. Not to speak ofyour own----"But he got to his feet then, shaking, and at what she saw in hisface even Eva faltered and stopped. It wasn't at all the face ofa fat, middle-aged sport. It was a face Jovian, terrible."You!" he began, low-voiced, ominous. "You!" He raised agreat fist high. "You two murderers! You didn't consider me,twenty years ago. You come to me with talk like that. Where'smy boy! You killed him, you two, twenty years ago. And now hebelongs to somebody else. Where's my son that should have gonemarching by today?" He flung his arms out in a great gesture oflonging. The red veins stood out on his forehead. "Where's myson! Answer me that, you two selfish, miserable women. Where'smy son!" Then, as they huddled together, frightened, wild-eyed."Out of my house! Out of my house! Before I hurt you!"They fled, terrified. The door banged behind them.Jo stood, shaking, in the center of the room. Then he reachedfor a chair, gropingly, and sat down. He passed one moist,flabby hand over his forehead and it came away wet. Thetelephone rang. He sat still. It sounded far away andunimportant, like something forgotten. But it rang and ranginsistently. Jo liked to answer his telephone when he was athome."Hello!" He knew instantly the voice at the other end."That you, Jo?" it said."Yes.""How's my boy?""I'm--all right.""Listen, Jo. The crowd's coming over tonight. I've fixed up alittle poker game for you. Just eight of us.""I can't come tonight, Gert.""Can't! Why not?""I'm not feeling so good.""You just said you were all right.""I AM all right. Just kind of tired."The voice took on a cooing note. "Is my Joey tired? Then heshall be all comfy on the sofa, and he doesn't need to play if hedon't want to. No, sir."Jo stood staring at the black mouthpiece of the telephone. Hewas seeing a procession go marching by. Boys, hundreds of boys,in khaki."Hello! Hello!" The voice took on an anxious note. "Are youthere?""Yes," wearily."Jo, there's something the matter. You're sick. I'm comingright over.""No!" "Why not? You sound as if you'd been sleeping. Lookhere----""Leave me alone!" cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver clackedonto the hook. "Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Long afterthe connection had been broken.He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. Then heturned and walked into the front room. All the light had goneout of it. Dusk had come on. All the light had gone out ofeverything. The zest had gone out of life. The game wasover--the game he had been playing against loneliness anddisappointment. And he was just a tired old man. A lonely,tired old man in a ridiculous rose-colored room that had grown,all of a sudden, drab.