“Pardon me, Miss Dade, you are the only one who hasn’t aged since then.”
Garwood had drawn a cigarette from his pocket, and as they strolled out into the rotunda, he offered the case to Beck.
“No, thanks,” said Beck.
Garwood continued pinching the cigarette.
“Emil—Mrs. Gahwood is not with yo’, is she?”
“No, poor girl,” said Garwood. “She stayed at home this winter. It has been lonely for me, too, without her. I had hoped to have her with me, but she is not well—and then her father’s death you know—”
Garwood allowed the sentence to complete in the girl’s mind its own impression of the lonely wife left at home.
“She must be lonesome,” Dade said.
“Yes—think of having to spend a winter in that beastly little place!” Garwood said, and then he hastened to add with an apologetic smile: “We wouldn’t talk that way in Grand Prairie, Lieutenant; would we, Miss Dade?”
The two men walked with her between them, and Garwood walked close to the girl. His eyes took in her fresh face, glowing under the dotted veil, and her athletic figure, which she carried as erectly as the soldier by her side did his.