“Why didn’t you let her learn?”
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe I was wrong. I looked at Audrey and I decided women already knew too darn’ much, anyhow. Teaching women the things men know hasn’t done one doggoned visible thing to improve human life yet. I half suspect it’s made the women skimp their natural business, besides. So I thought Audrey ought to have a chance to grow mellow by just being female.”
“Mellow. She’s hardly that.”
“No. I suppose not. She might be closer to it, though, than you think. You’re no wood-aged paragon of mellowness yourself, yet.” He reached out, rather impulsively, and put his hand on Jimmie’s shoulder. “You’re thinking, this morning—if I may be so clairvoyant as to say so—of taking a room, hunh?”
The younger man grinned again. “I was.”
“Don’t. Stick around your family. You aren’t anywhere near in the mood to work.
The mood I talked about when I butted in here. You won’t find out anything, anyway.
You might as well get over your mad—or push through it—or whatever you do when you see red. I can run the paint works—government orders and all. You just stay at home and mess around here when you want.”
“I’m used to working in any mood,” Jimmie answered seriously. “I’ve had some damned good practice!”
The venerable face was seamed with amusement and at the same time with a transcendent sympathy. “Yes, Jimmie. I can imagine. I can imagine a little. Twenty-three years ago—for a month—when I was in Chemical Warfare I had charge of a big ammunition dump—high explosive and gas. They shelled and bombed the thing constantly. I can make a stab at knowing what you mean. It’s not that mood I’m talking about. I have a sneaking idea you aren’t yellow—or a quitter. It’s the other mood.” He hesitated. “You’ll be seeing Audrey again soon, I suppose?”