As he rubbed himself with a bath towel he thought: “Mammy Chloe is right at that. I am pretty thin.” He flexed his muscles and posed before the mirror. Not so much thinner than when he had left home. He had gained almost fifteen pounds in the army and lost it all and a little more in the hospital. The scar was barely visible. He remembered the wound that his grandfather had received in the Civil War and wondered whether inquisitive children would ever ask him to show his scar. He inspected his face in the mirror. Not such a bad job for shaving on the train. He threw on his bathrobe and returned to his room. In the closet, carefully protected by a wardrobe bag hung his dinner clothes, perfectly pressed. After he had dressed he again stood before the mirror. Civilian clothes felt loose. They felt as though he had forgotten to put something on. They were careless, unrestrained, individualistic garments.
“Gee, but I wanna go home,” he sang.
When Captain Hamilton, in conventional dinner clothes, reached the foot of the stairs it was to shock his mother and Margaret.
“Wherever did you get those?” asked Margaret.
“Why, dear,” pleaded Mrs. Hamilton, “I thought you would surely wear your uniform. A few friends are coming over and I’m sure they would like to see you in uniform.”
Robert grinned.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought it would be rather nice to slip into these for a change. You know I’ve worn olive-drab for two years now.”
“But they will want to see you in uniform,” urged his mother.
“And Howard is going to be here and I do want him to see you in uniform. He’s going to wear his,” added Margaret.
“Which is all the more reason why I shouldn’t. Anyway my uniform’s too hot, and my gabardine is in the trunk.”