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East of Selz a severe engagement developed. In the Ploecken sector all Italian attacks were beaten back under heavy losses. Before the portion of the Carinthian front held by the Eighth Chasseurs Battalion more than 500 dead Italians were observed. Austro-Hungarian airmen dropped bombs on railroads in the province of Venice.

Bulfinch ordered sugar and Eau de selz for Braith, and iced coffee for himself. Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Helene. "Rex ought to be here, he's so fond of that."

For heaven's sake! Go to the door!" "I can't," repeated Rose, in a kind of wail. "I can't." And went. As she went she passed one futile, work-worn hand over her hair, plucked off her apron and tossed it into; a corner, first wiping her flushed face with it. Henry Selz came up the shabby stairs springily as a man of forty should. Rose stood at the door and waited for him.

She picked up the tray on the table by the bed. "Who was that?" asked the sick woman, in her ghostly, devitalised voice. "That was Henry Selz," said Rose. The sick woman grappled a moment with memory. "Henry Selz! Henry oh, yes. Did he go out with Rose?" "Yes," said Rose. "It's cold in here," whined the sick woman. "I'll get you a hot bag in a minute, Ma."

The hat was one of those tiny, head-hugging absurdities that only the Flosses can wear. "Trimmed is right!" jeered Al, from the doorway. Rose, thin-lipped with disapproval, turned to her stove again. "Well, but I had to have it. I'm going to the theatre to-night. And guess who with! Henry Selz!"

Henry Selz was the unromantic name of the commonplace man over whose fifteen-year-old letters Rose had glowed and dreamed an hour before. It was a name that had become mythical in that household to all but one. Rose heard it spoken now with a sense of unreality. She smiled a little uncertainly, and went on stirring the flour thickening for the gravy.

He was as sentimental in his reminiscence as if he had been calculating the lapse of time between the Chicago fire and the World's Fair. "Fifteen," said Rose, "in May. Won't you come in? Floss'll be here in a minute." Henry Selz came in and sat down on the davenport couch and dabbed at his forehead. The years had been very kind to him those same years that had treated Rose so ruthlessly.

Especially severe fighting occurred once more in the region of the Gonby bridgehead during March 27, 28 and 29, 1916. On the last of these days the Italians lost some 350 prisoners. Without cessation the guns thundered on both sides on these three days on the Doberdo Plateau, along the Fella and Ploecken sectors, in the Dolomites and to the east of Selz.

And how's the little girl to-night?" said Henry Selz. Floss dimpled, blushed, smiled, swayed. "Did I keep you waiting a terribly long time?" "No, not a bit. Rose and I were chinning over old times, weren't we, Rose?" A kindly, clumsy thought struck him. "Say, look here, Rose. We're going to a show. Why don't you run and put on your hat and come along. H'm? Come on!"

Her head came down among the supper things with a little crash that set the teacups, and the greasy plates to jingling, and she sobbed as she lay there, with great tearing, ugly sobs that would not be stilled, though she tried to stifle them as does one who lives in a paper-thin Chicago flat. She was not weeping for the Henry Selz whom she had just seen.