shoulders as if by a gesture to unburden himself of her unpleasant responsibility. He smiled slightly at the memory of how he had come to fear her. It had been the result of the strain he was under; once more the vision of mountainous bread and Emmy returned. The devil was in the woman!
"What are you smiling at?" Meta asked.
"Perhaps it was because my luck, as well, has changed," he admitted.
She came close up to him, quivering with emotion.
"I want everything!" she cried in a vibrant hunger; "everything! Do you understand? Are you willing? I'm starved as much as that woman up in her bed. Can you give me all the gayety, all the silks and emeralds there are in the world?"
He patted her shoulder. "You'll look like a Christmas tree. When this damned war is over we will go to Europe, to Berlin and Munich. They have the finest streets and theaters and cafés in the world. There things are run by men for men. The food is the best of all—no French fripperies, but solid rare cuts. Drinking is an art"
"What is that out in the water?" she idly demanded.
He gazed impatiently over the unscored tide and saw a dark infinitesimal blot.
"I have been watching it for a long while," she continued. "It's coming closer, I think."
He again took up his planning.
"We'll stay two or three years; till things get on their feet here. Turn the bakery into a company. No work, nothing but parties."
