“A good soldier does not ask questions.”
“All right, general,” said Stewart, and settled back against the wall, completely, ineffably happy. Never before, he told himself, had he known what happiness was; never before had the mere joy of living surged through his veins as it was doing now. Little comrade! But what was she doing?
He could hear her moving softly about the room; he could hear the rustle of what he took to be the bed-clothes; then the bed creaked as she sat down upon it. What was she doing? Why should she work in the dark, alone, without asking him to help? Was it because he could not help—was of so little use——
“You may light the candle now, my friend,” she said, in a low voice.
Stewart had a match ready—had had it ready for long minutes!—and in a trice the wick was alight and the flame shot up clear and steady.
After one glance, he sprang in amazement to his feet, for there before him stood a youth—the handsomest he had ever seen—Peter Pan come to earth again!—his hand at the visor of his traveling cap in mock salute.
“Well!” said Stewart, after a moment of amazed and delighted silence. “I believe you are a witch! Let me look at you!” and he caught up the candle and held it above his head.
The face upturned to his flamed crimson at the wonder and admiration in his eyes, but the dimple was sparkling at the corner of her mouth as she turned obediently before him and stepped slowly across the room. There is at the heart of every woman, however virginal and innocent, a subtle delight in knowing that men find her beautiful, and there could be no question of what Stewart thought at this moment.
At last she came to a stop facing him.
“Well?” she asked. “Will I do?”