Dictated by generations-old tradition, the question was eloquent. Weldon's one purpose, however, was to combat that tradition; and he answered calmly,—
"Why not?"
"Because—because it isn't neat," she responded unexpectedly.
This time, Weldon laughed outright. Trained in the wider, more open-air school of Canadian life, he found her insular point of view distinctly comic.
"I have a portable tub somewhere among my luggage," he reassured her.
She shook her head.
"No; that's not what I mean. But you won't be thrown with men of your own class. The private is a distinct race; you'll find him unbearable, when you are really in close quarters with him."
Deliberately Weldon rose and stood looking down at her. His lips were smiling; his eyes were direct and grave. His mother could have told the girl, just then, that some one had touched him on the raw.
"Miss Dent," he asked slowly; "is this the way you cheer on the men?"
She flushed under his rebuke and, for a moment, her blue eyes showed an angry light.