Without warning Chuck came home on three days' leave. It meant that he was bound for France right enough this time. But Tessie didn't care.
"I don't care where you're goin'," she said, exultantly, her eyes lingering on the stocky, straight, powerful figure in its rather ill-fitting khaki. "You're here now. That's enough. Ain't you tickled to be home, Chuck? Gee!"
"I sh'd say," responded Chuck. But even he seemed to detect some lack in his tone and words. He elaborated somewhat shamefacedly: "Sure. It's swell to be home. But I don't know. After you've travelled around, and come back, things look so kind of little to you. I don't know—kind of—" he floundered about at a loss for expression. Then tried again: "Now, take Hatton's place, f'r example. I always used to think it was a regular palace, but, gosh, you ought to see places where I was asked in San Francisco and around there. Why, they was—were—enough to make the Hatton house look like a shack. Swimmin' pools of white marble, and acres of yard like a park, and a Jap help always bringin' you something to eat or drink. And the folks themselves—why, say! Here we are scrapin' and bowin' to Hattons and that bunch. They're pikers to what some people are that invited me to their houses in New York and Berkeley, and treated me and the other guys like kings or something. Take Megan's store, too"—he was warming to his subject, so that he failed to notice the darkening of Tessie's face—"it's a joke compared to New York and San Francisco stores. Reg'lar rube joint."
Tessie stiffened. Her teeth were set, her eyes sparkled. She tossed her head. "Well, I'm sure, Mr. Mory, it's good enough for me. Too bad you had to come home at all now you're so elegant and swell, and everything. You better go call on Angie Hatton instead of wastin' time on me. She'd probably be tickled to see you."
He stumbled to his feet, then, awkwardly. "Aw, say, Tessie, I didn't mean—why, say—you don't suppose—why, believe me, I pretty near busted out cryin' when I saw the Junction eatin' house when my train came in. And I been thinkin' of you every minute. There wasn't a day—"
"Tell that to your swell New York friends. I may be a rube, but I ain't a fool." She was perilously near to tears.
"Why, say, Tess, listen! Listen! If you knew—if you knew—a guy's got to—he's got no right to—"
And presently Tessie was mollified, but only on the surface. She smiled and glanced and teased and sparkled. And beneath was terror. He talked differently. He walked differently. It wasn't his clothes or the army. It was something else—an ease of manner, a new leisureliness of glance, an air. Once Tessie had gone to Milwaukee over Labour Day. It was the extent of her experience as a traveller. She remembered how superior she had felt for at least two days after. But Chuck! California! New York! It wasn't the distance that terrified her. It was his new knowledge, the broadening of his vision, though she did not know it and certainly could not have put it into words.
They went walking down by the river to Oneida Springs, and drank some of the sulphur water that tasted like rotten eggs. Tessie drank it with little shrieks and shudders and puckered her face up into an expression indicative of extreme disgust.