"I really don't know how to send him an appropriate answer," said Vera to her confidante and room-mate that evening. "I can't write poetry and I can't fly."
"I shouldn't answer it," said her sensible friend briskly. "After all, my dear, you don't want to start a flirtation with a sergeant—I mean, it's hardly the thing, is it?"
The little pajama'd figure sitting on the edge of the bed favored her friend with a cold stare.
"I certainly am not thinking of a flirtation," she said icily, "but if I were, I should as certainly be unaffected by the rank of my victim. In America we aren't quite so strong for pedigrees and families as you English people—"
"Irish," said the other gently.
Vera laughed as she curled up in the bed and drew her sheet up to her chin.
"It's queer how people hate being called English—even Tam—"
"Look here, Vera," said her companion hotly, "just leave that young man alone. And please get all those silly, romantic ideas out of your head."
A silence—then,