He was too anxious about his mother to pause in New York. He
had telegraphed his tailor to fit him out and his valet to pack his
things and bring them to Newport.
Kedzie found him very brown and gaunt, far taller even than she
remembered. She was more afraid of him than ever. Strathdene was
only a little taller than she. She was afraid to tell Jim that she
was another's.
But she made a poor mimicry of perfect bliss. Jim was not critical.
She was more beautiful than he remembered her. He told her so, and
she was flattered by his courtship, miserably treacherous as she
felt.
She was proud to be a soldier's wife. She was jealous now of his
concern for his mother. He had to go see her first. He was surprised
to learn that Kedzie was not living with her. His mother had begun
to improve from the moment she had Jim's telegram. But her eyes on
Kedzie were terrible.
Jim did not notice the tension. He was too happy. He was sick of
soldiering. His old uniform was like a convict's stripes. He was
childishly ambitious to get into long trousers again. For nearly
half a year he had buttoned his breeches at the knee and housed
his calves in puttees and his feet in army brogans.
It was like a Christmas morning among new toys for him to put on
mufti, and take it off. A bath-tub full of hot water was a paradise
regained. Evening clothes with a big white shirt and a top-hat were
robes of ascension. But the clothes made to his old measurements
were worlds too wide for his shrunk shanks.
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