Sometimes the two dined downtown together. Sometimes they scarcely saw each other for days on end. One afternoon at 5.30, Emma, on duty bound, espied him walking home up Fifth Avenue, on the opposite side of the street. She felt a little pang as she watched the easy, graceful figure swinging its way up the brilliant, flag-decked avenue. She had given him so little time and thought; she had bestowed upon the house such scant attention in the last few weeks. She turned abruptly and crossed the street, dodging the late afternoon traffic with a sort of expert recklessness. She almost ran after the tall figure that was now a block ahead of her, and walking fast. She caught up with him, matched his stride, and touched his arm lightly.
"I beg your pardon, but aren't you Mr. T.A. Buck?"
"Yes."
"How do you do! I'm Mrs. Buck."
Then they had giggled together, deliciously, and he had put a firm hand on the smartly tailored blue serge sleeve.
"I thought so. That being the case, you're coming home along o' me, young 'ooman."
"Can't do it. I'm on my way to the Ritz to meet a dashing delegation from Serbia. You never saw such gorgeous creatures. All gold and green and red, with swords, and snake-work, and glittering boots. They'd make a musical-comedy soldier look like an undertaker."
There came a queer little look into his eyes. "But this isn't a musical comedy, dear. These men are—Look here, Emma. I want to talk to you. Let's walk home together and have dinner decently in our own dining room. There are things at the office—"
"S'impossible, Mr. Buck. I'm late now. And you know perfectly well there are two vice-commandants ready to snatch my shoulder-straps."
"Emma! Emma!"