Cara was on vacation, and a child—bent on forgetting that to-morrow must come. It was characteristic of her that she should enter into the spirit of the occasion with all the abandon it suggested.
Benton stood by as she gradually gave ground before the attacks of a stout, gray-templed Briton, a General of the Army of Occupation. She fought gallantly, but he stood doggedly before her handfuls of confetti, shaking the paper chips out of his eyes and mustache like some invincible old St. Bernard, and her slender Mandarin-coated figure retreated slowly before his red and medal-decked jacket.
"Watch out!" cried Benton, who followed her retreat, forbidden by the rules of warfare from giving aid, other than counsel, "The British Army is putting you in a bad strategic position."
She had retreated across the flower-beds and stood with her back to the rim of the fountain. Her box of confetti was empty and Benton also was without ordnance supplies.
Young Harcourt suddenly stepped forward from the crowd.
"Here!" he cried with a smile of frank worship, as he tendered a fresh box of confetti. "Take this and remember Bunker Hill!"
The British officer bowed.
"I surrender," he said, "because you violate the rules of war. Your confetti is not deadly and your tactics are mediocre, but your eyes use lyddite."
Inside Cara went to her room to wrestle with the tiny chips of multi-colored paper that covered her and filled her hair. In the hall, Harcourt came again to Benton.
"By Jove, she is a wonder," he said. Then he slipped his arm through Benton's and led him aside. The American followed supinely.