Chambers Robert William
Who Goes There!

CHAPTER XVII
HER FIRST CAMPAIGN

"Karen," she heard him say, in a constrained and unfamiliar voice, "I love you."

If he thought he was still speaking to the same girl whose soft and fragrant lips he had touched a moment before, he was mistaken. He spoke too late. The girl had vanished with her girlhood.

And now it was with a very different sort of being he had to do – with a woman whose mind had quickened under shock; whose latent emotions had been made conscious; whose spirit, awakened by a crisis, was already armoured and in arms. Aroused, alert, every instinct awake, proud of a new and radiant knowledge, new motives germinated, new impulses possessed her; a new and delicious wisdom thrilled her. She was ready, and she realized it.

"Karen?"

She heard him perfectly. Deep within her something was laughing. There was no hurry. She knew it.

"Karen?" he said, very humbly.

Conscious of the change within herself, still a little surprised and excited by it, and by a vaguely exquisite sensation of impending adventure, of perils charmingly indefinite, of the newness of it all, deep, deep within her she felt the certainty, the tranquillity, the sweet intoxication of power. Power! She knew she was using it now. She knew she was exercising it on this man. And, for a second, the grasp of the new weapon almost frightened her. For it was her first campaign. And she had not yet reconnoitered the adversary or fully developed his strength and position. Man, as an adversary, was still unknown to her.

"Karen?" he ventured, rather anxiously.

Instantly she lost a large portion of her fear of him. Oh! but she had a long, long reckoning to settle yet with him. She cast a swift glance backward, but already her girlhood was gone – gone with its simplicity, its quaint perplexities, its dear ignorance, its pathos, its helplessness before experience, its naïveté, its faith.

It had gone, slipped away, exhaled in a deep, unconscious sigh. And suddenly she flushed hotly, remembering his lips. Truly, truly there was a long reckoning still to come… But there seemed to be no hurry.

Still leaning against the tree, she fumbled for her handkerchief, touched her eyes with it leisurely, then, still turning her back to him, she lifted her hands to her hair.

For a first campaign she was doing very well.

Her thick, burnished hair was not in any desperate disorder, but she touched it here and there, patted, tucked, caressed it with light, swift fingers, delicately precise as the exploring antennæ of a butterfly.

"Give me my answer, Karen," he urged, in a low voice, stepping nearer. Instantly she moved lightly aside to avoid him – just a short step – her back still turned, her hands framing her bright hair. Presently she looked around with a slight laugh, which seemed to say: "Have you noticed my new wings? If I choose to use them, I become unattainable. Take care, my friend!"

The expression of her face checked him; her eyes were still starry from tears. The dewy loveliness of them, the soft shyness born of knowledge, the new charm of her left him silent and surprised. He had supposed that she was rather low in her mind. Also he became aware that something about her familiar to him had gone, that he was confronted by something in her hitherto unsuspected and undetected – something subtly experienced and unexpectedly mature. But that a new intelligence, made radiant by the consciousness of power, had suddenly developed and enveloped this young girl, and was now confronting him he did not comprehend at first.

And yet, in her attitude, in the poise of the small head, in the slight laugh parting her lips, in every line of her supple figure, every contour, every movement, he was aware of a surety, a self-confidence, a sort of serene authority utterly unfamiliar to him in her personality.

Gone was the wistfulness, the simplicity, the indecision of immaturity, the almost primitive candour that knows no art. Here was complexity looking out of eyes he scarcely knew, baffling him with a beauty indescribable.

"Karen – dear?" he said unsteadily, "have you nothing to say to me?"

There was laughter and curiosity in her eyes, and a hint of mockery.

"Yes," she said, "I have a great deal to say to you. In the first place we must not be silly any more – "

"Silly!"

She seemed surprised at his emphatic interruption.

"Yes, silly," she repeated serenely; "foolish, inconsequential. I admit I made a goose of myself, but that is no excuse for you to do it, too. You are older and more experienced and so much wiser – "

"Karen!"

"Yes?" she said innocently.

"What has happened to you?" he asked, disturbed and bewildered.

She opened her eyes at that:

"Nothing has happened, has it? Is my gown torn?" – bending over to survey her skirt and waist – "Oh, I forgot that the famous robbery occurred without violence – "

He reddened: "I don't understand you, Karen. Why do you fence this way with me? Why do you speak this way to me? What has suddenly changed you – totally altered you – altered your attitude toward me, your point of view, your disposition – your very character apparently – "

"My character?" she repeated with a gay little laugh which seemed to him irresponsible, and confused him exceedingly.

"No," he said, troubled, "that couldn't change so suddenly. But I never before saw this side of your character. I didn't know it existed – never supposed – dreamed – "

"Speaking of dreams," she interrupted with calm irrelevance, "I never told you that I finally did cross that frontier. Shall I tell you about it while we are walking back?"

"If you choose," he said, almost sullenly.

"Don't you care to hear about my dream? As I made a pillow of you during the process, I really think you are entitled to hear about it – " She broke off with a quick, involuntary laugh: "Why do you look hurt, Kervyn?"

At that he became serious to the verge of gloom.

"Come," she said sweetly, slipping her hand through his arm, "I want to tell you how I crossed that wonderful frontier – "

"I told you," he said gravely, "that I love you. Am I not entitled to an answer?"

"Entitled, Kervyn? I don't know to how many things you are en-titled. All I know is that you are titled – several times – aren't you?"

He reddened and bit his lip.

"Because," she went on gaily, "you served your time in the Guides. That is a very natural deduction, isn't it?"

He said nothing; he was very seriously upset. His stern mouth and darkened face betrayed it. And deep in Karen's heart the little imps of laughter danced to its mischievous beating.

After they had walked through the forest for a while in silence, she halted and withdrew her arm.

"You know," she said, "we are not nearly well enough acquainted for you to be moody and unamiable."

"I did not mean to be either," he said. "What is it that has come between us, Karen?"

"Why, nothing I hope," she said fervently.

"I hope so, too… You have been different since – " He hesitated, and she turned her head carelessly and looked back at the little brook they had crossed. When her blush had cooled she resumed her leisurely walk and glanced up at him inquiringly:

"Since when have you thought me different?"

"Since we —kissed– "

"Please, Kervyn! Not we. I think it was you who performed that very childish rite."

"Is that the way you regarded it?"

"Didn't you?"

"No."

"You didn't take it seriously!" she exclaimed with an enchanting laugh. "Did you really? I'm so dreadfully sorry!"

The dark flush on his face frightened her. It was her first campaign and she was easily alarmed. But she was wise enough to say nothing.

"Yes," he said with an effort, "I did take it very seriously. And I took you seriously, too. I don't understand your new attitude toward me – toward life itself. Until today I had never seen any lightness in you, any mockery – "

"Lightness? You saw plenty in me. I was not very difficult, was I? – on the train? Not very reticent about my views concerning friendship and my fears concerning – love. Why should you be surprised at the frivolity of such a girl? It has taken so many years for me to learn to laugh. Nineteen, I think. Won't you let me laugh a little, now that I know how?"

"Have I any influence at all with you?" he asked. "I thought I had."

"I thought so, too," she mused, innocently.

"What has happened to destroy it?"

"Why, nothing, Kervyn!" opening her eyes.

"Does any of my influence with you remain?"

"Loads of it. Oceans! Bushels!"

"Do you care for me?"

"Of course! The silly question."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, but I don't wish to weep because I care for you."

"Could you learn to love me?"

"Learn? I don't know," she mused aloud, apparently much interested in the novelty of the suggestion. "I learn some things easily; mathematics I never could learn. Why are you scowling, Kervyn?"

"Could you ever love me?" he persisted, doggedly.

"I don't know. Do you desire to pay your court to me?"

"I – yes – "

"You appear to be uncertain. It seems to me that a man ought to know whether or not he desires to pay his addresses to a girl."

"Can't you be serious, Karen!"

"Indeed I can. You ought to know it, too. I was serious enough over you, once. I followed you about so faithfully and persistently that even when you took a nap I did it too – "

"Karen, do you love me?"

"I don't know."

"Will you try?"

"I'm always willing to try anything – once."

"Then suppose you try marrying me, once!" he said, bluntly.

"But oughtn't a girl to be in love before she tries that? Besides, before I am quite free to converse with you on that subject I must converse with someone else."

"What!"

"Had you forgotten?"

"Do you mean the – "

"Yes," she said hastily – "you do remember. That is a prior engagement."

"Engagement!"

"An engagement to converse on the subject of engagements. I told you about it – in the days of my communicative innocence."

He was patient because he had to be.

"After you have made your answer clear to him, may I ask you again?"

"Ask me what?"

"To marry me."

"Wouldn't that permission depend upon what answer I may give him?"

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, "is there any doubt about your answer to him?"

She lifted her eyebrows: "You are entirely too confident. Must I first ask your permission to fulfill my obligations and then accomplish them in a manner that suits your views? It sounds a little like dictation, Kervyn."

He walked beside her, cogitating in gloom and silence. Was this the girl he had known? Was this the same ungrateful and capricious creature upon whom he had bestowed his protection, his personal interest, his anxious thoughts?

That he had fallen in love with her had surprised him, but it did not apparently surprise her. Had she instinctively foreseen what was going to happen to him? Had she deliberately watched the process with wise and feminine curiosity, coolly keeping her own skirts clear?

And the more he cogitated, the deeper and more complex appeared to him her intuitive and merciless knowledge of man.

Never had he beheld such lightning change in a woman. It couldn't be a change; all this calm self-possession, all the cool badinage, all this gaiety, this laughing malice, this serene capacity for appraising man and his motives must have existed in her – hidden, not latent; concealed, not embryotic!

He was illogical and perfectly masculine.

She was only a young girl, awakened, and making her first campaign.

CHAPTER XVIII
LESSE FOREST

As they came out of the forest and crossed the grassy circle where the fountain was splashing they saw an automobile standing in the drive by the front door.

"What does that mean?" exclaimed Guild, under his breath.

Both had halted, checked by the same impulse.

"Is it likely to be Baron von Reiter?" he asked, coldly.

She said, with admirable composure: "Whoever it is, we shall have to go in."

"Yes, of course… But if it happens to be the Baron – "

"Well?" she asked, looking away from him.

"In that event, have you nothing to say to me —now?"

"Not now."

"Haven't you, Karen?"

She shook her head, gazing steadily away from him.

"All right," he said, controlling his voice; "then I can make my adieux to you indoors as well as here."

"Are you leaving immediately?"

"Yes. I should have left this morning."

After a moment's silence: "Shall I hear from you?"

"Have I your permission to write – if I can do so?"

"I don't know yet. I shall write you first. Are you to be at Lesse Forest for a few days?"

"Yes. A note will reach me in care of Mrs. Courland."

Her pretty head was still averted. "We ought to go in now," she said.

Guild glanced sharply at the car as they passed it, and the chauffeur touched his cap to them. It was a big, dark blue, three-seated touring car, and there seemed to be nothing at all military in its appointments or in the chauffeur's livery.

He opened the front door for Karen, and they walked into the hall together.

A man rose quickly from a leather chair, as though he were a little lame. "Hello, Kervyn!" he said gaily, advancing with hand extended. "How are you, old top!"

"Harry!" exclaimed Guild; "I'm terribly glad to see you!"

They stood for a moment smiling at each other, hand clasped in hand. Then Darrel said:

"When your note came this morning, we decided to motor over, Miss Courland and I – " He turned toward a brown-eyed, blond young girl: "Valentine, this is the celebrated vanishing man I've been worrying over so long. You may not think he is worth worrying over, now that you see him, and maybe he isn't; but somehow or other I like him."

Miss Courland laughed. "I think I shall like him, too," she said, "now that I know he isn't merely a figment of your imagination – " She turned her brown eyes, pleasantly and a trifle curiously, toward Karen, who had paused beside the long table – a lithe and graceful figure in silhouette against the brilliancy of the sun-lit doorway.

"Karen," said Guild, "this is Miss Courland who extends her own and Mrs. Courland's charity to me – " He checked himself, smiling. "Do you still extend it, Miss Courland?"

Valentine had come forward and had offered her hand to Karen, and retaining it for a second, she turned to answer Guild:

"Of course! We came to take you back with us." And, to Karen: "It isn't a very gracious thing for us to do – to steal a guest from Quellenheim – and I am afraid you do not feel very grateful toward me for doing it."

Their hands parted and their eyes rested on each other for a second's swift feminine appraisal.

"Baron von Reiter has not yet arrived," said Karen, "so I do not think Mr. Guild has had a very interesting visit. I feel as though I ought to thank you for asking him to Lesse."

Guild, who was talking to Darrel, heard her, and gave her a rather grim look.

Then he presented Darrel; and the light, gossipy conversation became general.

With one ear on duty and one listening to Darrel, Guild heard Karen giving to Valentine a carelessly humorous outline of her journey from England – caught the little exclamations of interest and sympathy from the pretty brown-eyed American girl, and still was able to sketch for Darrel the same theme from his own more sober point of view.

Neither he nor Karen, of course, spoke of the reason for Guild's going to England, nor that the journey had been undertaken on compulsion, nor, indeed, did they hint at anything concerning the more sinister and personal side of the affair. It merely appeared that a German general, presumably a friend of Guild, not being able to get his daughter out of England after hostilities had commenced, had confided the task to a man he trusted and who was able to go unquestioned into a country at war with his own. But it all seemed quite romantic enough, even under such circumstances, to thrill Valentine Courland.

"Do come back to Lesse with us, won't you?" she asked Karen. "My mother and I would love to have you. You'd be bored to distraction here with only the housekeeper. Do come!"

"I haven't any clothes," said Karen frankly.

"I have loads of them! We'd be so glad to have you at Lesse. Won't you come back with us?"

Karen laughed, enchanted. She could see Guild without looking at him. His attitude was eloquent.

"If you really do want me, I'll come," she said. "But you and Mr. Darrel will remain to luncheon, won't you? I'll speak to the Frau Förster – if I may be excused – " She fell for a moment again, unconsciously, into her quaint schoolgirl manner, and dropped them a little curtsey.

Guild opened the pantry door for her and held it.

"May I explain to them a little more clearly who you are, Karen?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes, please."

He came back into the hall where Miss Courland and Darrel were talking. Valentine turned swiftly.

"Isn't she the sweetest thing!" exclaimed the girl warmly.

"She is really very wonderful," said Guild; "let me tell you a little about her accomplishments and herself."

They were still listening to Guild, with an interest which absorbed them, when Karen returned.

"The few clothes I have," she said, "are being repacked by Frau Bergner. Kervyn, shall she repack your sack?"

"No, I'll do that," he said, turning away with the happiest face he had worn that morning. And the girl knew that it was because they were going away together again – taking life's highway once more in each other's company. Involuntarily she looked after him, conscious for a second, again, of new and powerful motives, new currents, new emotions invading her; and she wondered how vitally they concerned this man who had so suddenly destroyed a familiar world for her and as suddenly was offering her as substitute a new and strange one.

Emerging from her brief abstraction she looked across the hall at Valentine Courland, who, seated on the oak table, chatted animatedly with Darrel. The girl was exceedingly attractive; Karen realized that at once. Also this pretty American had said very frankly that she was certain to like Guild. Karen had heard her say it.

"Miss Girard," said Darrel, "is the shooting good at Quellenheim? I imagine it must be, judging from these trophies." He waved a comprehensive hand toward the walls of the room.

Karen came slowly over to Valentine: "I really don't know much about shooting. There are boar and deer here. I suppose at Lesse Forest you have really excellent sport, don't you?"

"Our guests seem to find the shooting good," replied Valentine. "My mother and I go out with them sometimes. I don't know whether we shall be able to offer anybody any shooting this autumn. We are exceedingly worried about Lesse Forest. You see, every autumn we renew the lease, but our lease expired last week, and we can't renew it because nobody seems to know where our landlord is or where to find him."

"Is your landlord Belgian?"

"Yes. He is a wealthy brewer at Wiltz-la-Vallée. And the Germans bombarded and burnt it – everything is in ruins and the people fled or dead. So we are really very much concerned about the possible fate of our landlord, Monsieur Paillard, and we don't exactly know what to do."

Guild returned, coming downstairs two at a time, his attractive features very youthful and animated. And Karen, discreetly observing him and his buoyant demeanour, felt a swift and delightful confusion in the knowledge of her power to make or unmake the happiness of a grown man.

Frau Bergner appeared with cloth and covers, beaming, curtseying to all; and very soon they were at luncheon – a simple but perfectly cooked luncheon, where everything was delectable and there did not seem to be very much of any particular variety, yet there was just a trifle more than enough for everybody. Which is the real triumph of a good German, French, or Belgian housekeeper's calculations.

And when luncheon was ended the luggage already had been placed in the car; the chauffeur emerged from the kitchen where Frau Bergner had been generous to him; and in a few moments the big blue machine was whirring smoothly on its way to Lesse, through the beautiful Ardennes forests over smooth, well-cared-for roads, the sun shining in a cloudless sky, and four young people making rapid headway in a new acquaintanceship which seemed to promise everything agreeable and gay.

At the huge, moss-grown gate-posts of Lesse a forester lifted his grey felt hat and opened the gates; and around the first curve appeared the celebrated and beautiful old lodge of weather-stained stone and slate, the narrow terrace blazing with geraniums and scarlet sage.

Guild noticed a slender, red-haired girl seated on the steps, knitting, with a heap of dark-blue wool in her lap; but when the car drew up, Valentine Courland addressed her as "mother" – to the intense surprise of Karen as well as of himself, for Mrs. Courland seemed scarce older than her own daughter, and quite as youthfully attractive.

She welcomed Karen with a sweet directness of manner which won the girl instantly; and her manner to Guild was no less charming – an older woman's delightful recognition of a young man's admiration, and a smiling concession to this young man's youth and good looks.

When Valentine mentioned Karen's plight in the matter of wardrobe, her mother laughed gaily and, slipping one arm around Karen's waist, took her off into the house.

"We shall remedy that immediately," she said. "Come and see what suits you best."

"As for you," said Darrel to Guild, "your luggage is in your room. I suppose you are glad of that."

"Rather," said Guild with such intense feeling that Valentine Courland laughed outright.

"Take him to his beloved luggage," she said to Darrel; "I had no idea he was so vain. You know the room, don't you? It is next to your own."

"Harry, why are you limping?" asked Valentine as Darrel rose to go.

"I'm not."

"You are. Why?"

"Rum. I drink too much of it," he explained seriously.

So the young men went away together; and presently Guild was flinging from him the same worn clothing which, at one terrible moment, seemed destined to become his shroud: and Darrel sat on the bed and gave him an outline of the life at Lesse Forest and of the two American women who lived there.

"Courland loved the place," said Darrel, "and for many years until his death he spent the summers here with his wife and daughter.

"That's why they continue to come. The place is part of their life. But I don't know what they'll do now. Monsieur Paillard, their landlord, hasn't been heard of since the Germans bombarded and burnt Wiltz-la-Vallée. Whether poor Paillard got knocked on the head by a rifle-butt or a 41-centimetre shell, or whether he was lined up against some garden wall with the other poor devils when the Prussian firing-squads sickened and they had to turn the machine-guns on the prisoners, nobody seems to know.

"Wiltz-la-Vallée is nothing but an ill-smelling heap of rubbish. The whole country is in a horrible condition. You know a rotting cabbage or beet or turnip field emits a bad enough smell. Add to that the stench from an entire dead and decomposing community of three thousand people! Oh yes, they dug offal trenches, but they weren't deep enough. And besides there was enough else lying dead under the blackened bricks and rafters to poison the atmosphere of a whole country. It's a ghastly thing what they've done to Belgium!"

Guild went to his modern bathroom to bathe, but left the door open.

"Go on, Harry," he said.

"Well, that's about all," continued Darrel. "The Germans left death and filth behind them. Not only what the hands of man erected is in ruins, but the very face of the earth itself is mangled out of all recognition. They tore Nature herself to pieces, stamped her features out, obliterated her very body! You ought to see some of the country! I don't mean where towns or solitary farms were. I mean the land, the landscape! – all full of slimy pits from their shells, cut in every direction by their noisome trenches, miles and miles of roadside trees shot to splinters, woodlands burnt to ashes, forests torn to slivers – one vast, distorted and abominable desolation."

Guild had reappeared, and was dressing.

"They didn't ransack the Grand Duchy," continued Darrel, "although I heard that the Grand Duchess blocked their road with her own automobile and faced the invaders until they pushed her aside with scant ceremony. If she did that she's as plucky as she is pretty. That's the story, anyway."

"Have the Germans bothered you here?" asked Guild, buttoning a fresh collar.

"Not any to speak of. Of course they don't care anything about the frontier; they'd violate it in a minute. And I've been rather worried because a lot of these Luxembourg peasants, particularly the woodsmen and forest dwellers, are Belgians, or are in full sympathy with them. And I'm afraid they'll do something that will bring the Germans to Lesse Forest."

"You mean some sort of franc-tireur business?"

"Yes, I mean just that."

"The Germans shoot franc-tireurs without court-martial."

"I know it. And there has been sniping across the border, everywhere, even since the destruction of Wiltz-la-Vallée. I expect there'll be mischief here sooner or later."

Guild, tall, broad-shouldered, erect, stood by the window looking out between the gently blowing sash-curtains, and fastening his waistcoat.

And, standing so, he said: "Harry, this is no place for Mrs. Courland and her daughter. They ought to go to Luxembourg City, or across the line into Holland. As a matter of fact they really ought to go back to America."

"I think so too," nodded Darrell. "I think we may persuade them to come back with us."

Without looking at his business partner and friend, Guild said: "I am not going back with you."

"What!"

"I can't. But you must go – rather soon, too. And you must try to persuade the Courlands to go with you."

"What are you planning to do?" demanded Darrel with the irritable impatience of a man who already has answered his own question.

"You can guess, I suppose?"

"Yes, dammit! – I can! I've been afraid you'd do some such fool thing. And I ask you, Kervyn, as a sane, sensible Yankee business man, is it necessary for you to gallop into this miserable free fight and wallow in it up to your neck? Is it? Is it necessary to propitiate your bally ancestors by pulling a gun on the Kaiser and striking an attitude?"

Guild laughed. "I'm afraid it's a matter of propitiating my own conscience, Harry. I'm afraid I'll have to strike an attitude and pull that gun."

"To the glory of the Gold Book and the Counts of Gueldres! I know! You're very quiet about such things, but I knew it was inside you all the time. Confound it! I was that worried by your letter to me! I thought you'd already done something and had been caught."

"I hadn't been doing anything, but I had been caught."

"I knew it!"

"Naturally; or I shouldn't have written you a one-act melodrama instead of a letter… Did you destroy the letter to my mother?"

"Yes, I did."

"That was right. I'll tell you about it some time. And now, before we go down, this is for your own instruction: I am going to try to get into touch with the Belgian army. How to do it I don't see very clearly, because there are some two million Germans between me and it. But that's what I shall try to do, Harry. So, during the day or two I remain here, persuade your friends, the Courlands, of the very real danger they run in remaining at Lesse. Because any of these peasants at any moment are likely to sally forth Uhlan sniping. And you know what German reprisals mean."

"Yes," said Darrel uneasily. He added with a boyish blush: "I'm rather frightfully fond of Valentine Courland, too."

"Then talk to the Courlands. Something serious evidently has happened to their landlord. If he made himself personally obnoxious to the soldiery which destroyed Wiltz-la-Vallée, a detachment might be sent here anyway to destroy Lesse Lodge. You can't tell what the Teutonic military mind is hatching. I was playing chess when they were arranging a shooting party in my honour. Come on downstairs."

"Yes, in a minute. Kervyn, I don't believe you quite got me – about Valentine Courland."

Guild looked around at him curiously.

"Is it the real thing, Harry?"

"Rather. With me, I mean."

"You're in love?"

"Rather! But Valentine raises the deuce with me. She won't listen, Kervyn. She sits on sentiment. She guys me. I don't think she likes anybody else, but I'm dead sure she doesn't care for me – that way."

Guild studied the pattern on the rug at his feet. After a while he said: "When a man's in love he doesn't seem to know it until it's too late."

"Rot! I knew it right away. Last winter when the Courlands were in New York I knew I was falling in love with her. It hurt, too, I can tell you. Why, Kervyn, after they sailed it hurt me so that I couldn't think of anything. I didn't eat properly. A man like you can't realize how it hurts to love a girl. But it's one incessant, omnipresent, and devilish gnawing – a sensation of emptiness indescribable filled with loud and irregular heart-throbs – a happy agony, a precious pain – "

"Harry!"

"What?" asked that young man, startled.

"Do you realize you are almost shouting?"

"Was I? Well, I'm almost totally unbalanced and I don't know how long I can stand the treatment I'm getting. I've told her mother, and she laughs at me, too. But I honestly think she likes me. What would you do, Kervyn, if you cared for a girl and you couldn't induce her to converse on the subject?"

Guild's features grew flushed and sombre. "I haven't the faintest idea what a man should do," he said. "The dignified thing would be for a man to drop the matter."

"I know. I've dropped it a hundred times a week. But she seems to be glad of it. And I can't endure that. So I re-open the subject, and she re-closes it and sits on the lid. I tell you, Kervyn, it's amounting to a living nightmare with me. I am so filled with tenderness and sentiment that I can't digest it unaided by the milk of human kindness – "

"Do you talk this way to her?" asked Guild, laughing. "If you compare unrequited love to acute indigestion no girl on earth is going to listen to you."

"I have to use some flights of imagination," said Darrel, sulkily. "A girl likes to hear anything when it's all dolled out with figures of speech. What the deuce are you laughing at? All right! Wait until you fall in love yourself. But you won't have time now; you'll enlist in some fool regiment and get your bally head knocked off! I thought I had troubles enough with Valentine, and now this business begins!"