He was not at home very often. He could not spoil her almost
childish content in the small things that made up her life.
"I think it was very successful," she said, surveying herself in
one of the corner mirrors. "Do you like my gown, Clay?"
"It's very lovely."
"It's new. I've been getting some clothes, Clay. You'll probably
shriek at the bills. But all this talk about not buying clothes is
nonsense, you know. The girls who work in the shops have to live."
"Naturally. Of course there is other work open to them now,"
"In munition plants, I daresay. To be blown up!"
He winced. The thought of that night the year before, when the
plant went, still turned him sick.
"Don't buy too many things, my dear," he said, gently. "You know
how things are."
"I know it's your fault that they are as they are," she persisted.
"Oh, I know it was noble of you, and all that. The country's crazy
about you. But still I think it was silly. Every one else is
making money out of things, and you - a lot of thanks you'll get,
when the war's over.
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