corner of her eye, Emma McChesney had been glancing at her handsome business partner. She had found herself doing the same thing from the time he had met her at the dock late in the afternoon of the day before. Those four months had wrought some subtle change. But what? Where? She frowned a moment in thought. 

 Then: 

 "Is that a new suit, T. A.?" 

 "This? Lord, no! Last summer's. Put it on because of this July hangover in September. Why?" 

 "Oh, I don't know"—vaguely—"I just—wondered." 

 There was nothing vague about T. A. Buck, however. His old air of leisureliness was gone. His very attitude as he sat there, erect, brisk, confident, was in direct contrast to his old, graceful indolence. 

 "I'd like to go over the home grounds with you this morning," he said. "Of course, in our talk last night, we didn't cover the South American situation thoroughly. But your letters and the orders told the story. You carried the thing through to success. It's marvelous! But we stay-at-homes haven't been marking time during your absence." 

 The puzzled frown still sat on Emma McChesney's brow. As though thinking aloud, she said, 

 "Have you grown thinner, or fatter or—something?" 

 "Not an ounce. Weighed at the club yesterday." 

 He leaned forward a little, his face suddenly very sober. 

 "Emma, I want to tell you now that—that mother—she—I lost her just a few weeks after you sailed." 

 Emma McChesney gave a little cry. She came quickly over to him, and one hand went to his shoulder as she stood looking down at him, her face all sympathy and contrition and sorrow. 

 "And you didn't write me! You didn't even tell me, last night!" 

 "I didn't want to distress you. I knew you were having a hard-enough pull down there without additional worries. It happened very suddenly while I was out on the road. I got the wire in Peoria. She died very suddenly and quite painlessly. Her companion, Miss Tate, was with her. She had never been herself since Dad's death." 

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