“And when Dan comes home?” Thurley asked in spite of herself.
“The old dear will be so used to soldiers’ fare he’ll think mine perfection.... Good-by, Thurley, do change your mind and give us a benefit sing. Don’t worry about Boy, he is all right, I weigh him every week and I am afraid I’ll lose Herta if I find too much fault—”
Ali Baba was working in the backyard and Thurley fled with relief to find him busied with currant bushes.
“Ali Baba,” she said, stamping her foot, “look at me—tell me, do you see war-madness in my eyes?”
He leaned on his hand cultivator reflectively. “War madness? Land sakes and Mrs. Davis, that’s a new one—”
“You have seen fame-madness and vanity-madness and lonesome-madness and even temper-madness in me,” Thurley confessed, “but this war-madness, this way of leaving houses undusted and babies unkissed—like Lorraine—”
Ali Baba left the cultivator to come forward. His blue eyes were keen with indignation. “Thurley,” he said, “God bless our women that work and pray for the boys, but I’m gosh-hanged sick of these critters chasing around day and night trying their best to get changed into these here semi-monjays!”