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 when she had wakened, full of energy, to find Jason lying beside her sleeping in the same profound, conscienceless slumber.

"Jason!" she said again. "Jason Downes!" And this time there was a curious tenderness in her voice that was almost a sob.

He did not stir, and she touched his shoulder. He moved slowly, and then, opening his eyes, sat up and put his feet on the floor. He awakened lazily, and for a moment he simply sat staring at her, looking as neat and dapper as if he had just finished an elaborate toilet. Again memory smote Emma. He had always been like this: he had always wakened in the mornings, looking fresh and neat, with every hair in place. It was that hair-oil he persisted in using. Now that he'd come home, she would have to get antimacassars to protect the furniture against Jason's oily head.

Suddenly he grinned and said, "Why! Hello! It's you, Em." It wasn't a sheepish grin, but a smile of cocky assurance, such as was frozen forever upon the face of the enlarged portrait.

"Jason . . . Jason! Oh, my God! Jason!" She collapsed suddenly and fell into the mahogany-veneer rocker. It was a strange Emma, less strange perhaps to Jason Downes than she would have been to the world outside, for suddenly she had become all soft and collapsed and feminine. All those twenty-six years had rolled away, leaving her helpless.

As if he had left the house only that morning, he sat on the arm of the chair and kissed her. He patted her hands and said, "You mustn't cry like that, Em. I can't bear to hear you. It breaks me all up."

"If you knew how long I'd waited!" she sobbed.