"Why, I didn't think he was engaged," said Miss Loomis.
"No,—and he didn't mean you to. But when one mail brings a man seven letters from one girl, I've no use for him."
"Well, I should much rather he had them of one than from seven different girls," said Miss Loomis, smiling resolutely.
"Oh, you're bound to uphold him, I see. All the same, I thought better of him."
"Ah?" And now in a very pretty, playful way did Miss Loomis take her companion's flushed face between two long, white, slender hands,—very cool and dainty members were they,—and archly queried, "Are you beginning to tire of your bargain, Lady Cranston? Are you planning already to unload me, as the captain says, on somebody else?"
The answer came with sudden vehemence and a hug. "You are much too good for any man I know,—except Will, and you can't have him. And I'll never let you go till the right one comes."
After which outburst, and for over a week, did this young matron say little more to Miss Loomis on the subject, but she must have enlivened some hours of the captain's convalescence with her views on recent graduates in general, and this one in particular, for when at last letters came from the front announcing the arrival of the reinforcements and the final cutting loose of the reorganized column from its base, the prostrate warrior glanced up at his busy wife with an odd mixture of merriment and concern in his haggard face.
"To whose troop do you suppose your friend Davies has been assigned?"
"Not to yours, surely. You have no vacancy."
"No. I fear I wish I had,—every time I see my bulky senior sub in saddle. But, of all men you know——"