"We shall winter in the South," said Cheneston; he glanced at Grace Gilpin and I knew she was listening. "We shall probably go to Norway for the sports, and spend the rest of the time in England."
"It sounds like a fairy tale," said the C.O.'s wife.
"I think it is," I broke in unexpectedly.
Grace Gilpin turned in her chair and glanced at me. She was lovely; she wore cornflower blue crêpe and white collar and cuffs.
"I think Cheneston would be quite wonderful in the rôle of a fairy prince," she said.
He laughed, rose, and walked away.
Going home he looked at me gravely.
"I hope you're not getting romantic about our engagement. I don't mean anything rotten, child—but all that silly rubbish about fairy tales and fairy princes. I have only five weeks more—then I go to the front."
"Did you care for Grace most frightfully?" I asked boldly.
He looked down at me with slightly puzzled eyes. I can't describe his eyes exactly, they are hazel, and when he is going to laugh they laugh first; and they are hard and honest and straight.