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"I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Mr. Spencer," he explained.
"I've been down on the border. Yuma. I just got a short leave,
and came back to see my family."
He stood very erect, a bronzed and military figure. Suddenly it
seemed strange to Clayton Spencer that this man before him had only
a few months before opened his automobile door for him, and stood
waiting with a rug to spread over his knees. He got up and shook
hands.
"You look like a different man, Jackson."
"Well, at least I feel like a man."
"Sit down," he said. And again it occurred to him that never
before had he asked Jackson to sit down in his presence. It was
wrong, somehow. The whole class system was absurd. Maybe war
would change that, too. It was doing many queer things, already.
He had sent for Jackson, but he did not at once approach the reason.
He sat back, while Jackson talked of the border and Joey slipped in
and pretended to sharpen lead pencils.
Clayton's eyes wandered to the window.


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