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the hope that Nicole guessed at only an emotional excite-
ment about Rosemary. He was not sure—last night at the
theatre she had referred pointedly to Rosemary as a child.
The trio lunched downstairs in an atmosphere of carpets
and padded waiters, who did not march at the stomping
quick-step of those men who brought good food to the tables
whereon they had recently dined. Here there were families
of Americans staring around at families of Americans, and
trying to make conversation with one another.
There was a party at the next table that they could not
account for. It consisted of an expansive, somewhat secre-
tarial, wouldyou-mind-repeating young man, and a score of
women. The women were neither young nor old nor of any
particular social class; yet the party gave the impression of a
unit, held more closely together for example than a group of
wives stalling through a professional congress of their hus-
bands. Certainly it was more of a unit than any conceivable
tourist party.
An instinct made Dick suck back the grave derision that
formed on his tongue; he asked the waiter to find out who
they were.
‘Those are the gold-star muzzers,’ explained the waiter.
Aloud and in low voices they exclaimed. Rosemary’s eyes
filled with tears.
‘Probably the young ones are the wives,’ said Nicole.
Over his wine Dick looked at them again; in their happy
faces, the dignity that surrounded and pervaded the par-
ty, he perceived all the maturity of an older America. For a
while the sobered women who had come to mourn for their

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