Her face was glowing. Its fine colour and the big brown eyes, the small nose and the proud curve of the lips reminded the man of a picture he once had seen. As for her friendliness, little wonder that it entered into his soul.
The bag lay in an alcove—a little, delicate business of powder-blue and gold. Its beads were so fine, they might have been stitches of silk.
The girl picked it up and turned to the man.
“I left this here on purpose,” she said quietly. “I wanted to speak to you when the others were gone. You don’t remember me, but I met you in Philadelphia, before the War. I had my hair down then. Why are you doing this?”
“I was staying with the Stacks,” said Bagot, knitting his brows.
“That’s right. In 1914. But I tell you, my hair was down, so you wouldn’t remember. Besides . . . What are you doing here? You were in the Blues.”
“That’s over,” said Willoughby slowly. “Now, I’m in service. This was my home.”
“This?”
He nodded.
“I lost my money, you see, and the place had to go. They’re very nice people, luckily. They’ve no idea who I am, and—and it serves my turn. I live at the second lodge.”