“Why, not exactly. I don’t know whether it means those who fight in Cuba, or those who are Cuban people; it might be either way. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Aren’t there a lot of people here now? It’s not been so crowded since we came.”
Just then two gentlemen sauntered up and stood looking at the gay scene before them. One was Marie’s father, Mabel knew.
“There’s not much chance of our having an occasion like this another year,” Mr. Lewis remarked: “The war won’t last long.”
Mabel nudged her companion, and they listened with all their ears.
“Too bad, though, the way our fellows have had to be sacrificed at camp,” returned Mr. Lewis’ friend. “Every day I hear of someone from here having succumbed to typhoid fever, and the warm weather will not improve the conditions, I am afraid. By the way, you knew Captain Evans. I learned at the club on my way uptown, that he was gone. Poor fellow, as nice a man as I ever knew. Died of typhoid fever.”
Harold clutched Mabel’s arm and turned very pale. “Did you hear?” he whispered.
Mabel nodded; she understood. “Perhaps there is some mistake,” she whispered, in return. “Wait, I want to ask something.”
She went up to Mr. Lewis, who looked down at her kindly. “If you please, Mr. Lewis,” she said, “That Captain Evans you know, that you were just talking about, did he have any little boy?”
Mr. Lewis glanced inquiringly at his friend, who nodded. “Yes, I think so,” he made answer.
“And is his name Harold?” Mabel’s eyes were getting very moist, and she gave a quick little gasp.