XXXVI
RUFE HURRIES HOME
RUFE MELTON came home to find life not the same. Matters had evolved while he was away about his country’s business, matters that didn’t please him now. He had rushed to Pidge. As the steamer approached New York, a novel and unforeseen eagerness awoke within to get to her, but she hadn’t put off her Arctics. Besides, off duty from her editorial job, there was an infant in her arms for the most part—a seven-months-old male infant with combed hair, that had looked into his face and begun to yell. Rufe took this as a personal affront. He had supposed it hers at first.
“Sometimes, I forget that it isn’t,” she had said.
Harrow Street furnished the statement and proof, however, that it was Fanny Gallup’s, who was dead.
“But why don’t you adopt the other two?” he asked.
“Miss Claes has found homes for Albert’s children,” Pidge said.
Rufe stood it for two days. “This can’t go on, Pan. I’ve got to get to work—no nerves to work in this racket, since I was gassed——”
“Of course not.”
Under his surface anger, she saw the old look of hurt wonder that harrowed her so.
“Come back—any time, Rufe—come whenever you can. Always a place here, you know.”