"I know—stylish broth. Let me warm you up a little of my thick barley soup that's left over from—"
He pressed her down. "Please, ma! I'm full up. I couldn't. They had pink ice-cream, too, with pink cake and—"
"Such mess-food what is bad for you. I'm surprised how Clara keeps her good complexion. Let me fix you some fried—"
"Ma, I tell you I couldn't. It's ten o'clock. You mustn't try to fatten me up so. In war-time a man has got to be lean."
She sat back suddenly and whitely quiet. "That's—twice already to-day,
Sam, you talk like that."
He took up her lax hand, moving each separate finger up and down, eyes lowered. "Why not? Doesn't it ever strike you, mamma, that you and me are—are kidding ourselves along on this war business, pretending to each other there ain't no war?"
She laid a quick hand to her breast. "What you mean, Sammy?"
"Why, you know what I mean, ma. I notice you read the war news pretty closely, all right."
"Sammy, you mean something!"
"Now, ma, there's no need to get excited right away. Think of the mothers who haven't even got bank-accounts whose sons have got to go."