Archie seemed to be developing nerves himself of late. When the doorbell or telephone rang suddenly, he jumped as if he had been touched; and he went to his office almost every evening, coming home late and very tired.
"You're working too hard, old boy," protested Joan. "I'll be glad when the treasurer of your company feels well enough to come back from Saranac and take his old job again."
"He's back now. I expect to turn the books over to him in a few days."
"Good! I'm glad of it."
"Are you?" asked Archie, rather queerly.
"Of course!—though it means less salary, doesn't it? What do we care? We had enough before. You know, dear, money simply means nothing to me, so long as the bills are paid."
"I know," he said soberly.
Perhaps if she had been less obsessed with the war, Joan might have been better prepared for what was coming....
One day, on her way home from the Red Cross rooms, she bought herself an early edition of an evening paper, and was looking over the headlines when she came across the following: