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The return to normalcy took place suddenly and painlessly.

Madelaine Hamill, opening the door to her son at five o'clock of a blistering afternoon in early July, saw instantly that it had. A dozen little things told her. The look of his eyes. The ring of his voice. The what-care-I tilt of his hat. The long skinny paper-wrapped package under his arm, which could be nothing whatever except a new golf club. . . . When he kissed her his lips made a smack! sound on her cheek, indicative of enthusiasm.

But because she was a very wise woman, who understood Jock very well, she did not say, "Tell me about it!" Nor did she dance a jig, nor sing halleluiahs, nor give way to any of the impulses that surged in her maternal breast. Instead she went back to the chair in which she had been sitting and flopped down with a tiny moan.

"Isn't it hot!"

"Hell was never hotter," Jock agreed cheerfully.

He removed his hat and let it sail in a neat are to the divan across the room. He peeled off his coat. He planted his feet astraddle, and with the new golf club, wrapping and all, took several terrific practice swings in air, barely missing the chandelier.

Mrs. Hamill waited.

Jock leaned the brassie tenderly in a corner and approached the victrola. He selected a record with maddening deliberation. While it tinkled a glad tune he stood over it, and twice he moved the needle back to repeat a few bars which he seemed to find particularly pleasing.