There was a stir in the car. A number of passengers had risen to look out the windows; John Grandin rose with them. The train was rumbling over a long steel bridge. Below, moving slowly down the river to the Sound, was a submarine. For a moment it was directly beneath the train, at right angles to the bridge; then it slid into full view, longer, slenderer, riding higher in the water than he would have expected. It had been painted almost a pearl-­gray and looked brand new. He wished Alan could see this; yes, and Ted too; Alan might have known her type and tonnage and could have named, perhaps, her sister craft. He could see several men in dungarees and undershirts standing along the narrow deck; their red arms flashed in the sun as they waved upward at the train. One man jumped up and down and clowned for his admiring audience; a few others stood silent, with arms akimbo, possessed by who knew what grave, envious, or scornful thoughts? The passengers remained standing at the windows for some moments after the submarine had passed from view on its way out to sea; and when they resumed their places, two or three involuntarily exchanged glances.

. . . Alan collected in a notebook the names that pilots gave their bombers, and had added some of his own: Hell’s Angel, The Avenger, All-­Out Alan. He passionately hoped the war would last long enough for him to get in. Ted, who had never heard of peacetime, believed it would last forever. He went into the diner and found a seat.

The steward placed him at a table facing a couple just finishing their meal. They were about his own age. The man shot him what appeared to be a hostile glance and in the next instant said pleasantly, “Lovely day.” He introduced himself and his wife as Mr. and Mrs. Howard; or rather, he added, Sarah and Bill.

Though somewhat given to facetiousness, Mr. Howard was friendly, natural, and very attentive to Mrs. Howard. As Grandin took them in, he gathered the impression that here was a man in love with his wife, a longtime lifetime love. There was about him a buoyant spontaneity, almost an animal good nature, that would probably keep the Howards in love with one another till Kingdom Come. His wife was about forty, tall, with a large and rather petulant face. The eyes and eyebrows wore an expression which seemed to indicate a perpetual disdain, as if she lamented that nothing was good enough, why did one have to put up with things, what ailed people? She was a woman loved and so made no effort.

“This cake is plain stale,” she said to her husband. “But of course if we complain, they’ll only tell us there’s a war on.”

“Now Mama,” Mr. Howard said.