It was an advantage that her accent was different. He could not have determined the social status of a Southerner from her talk—in New York a girl of a lower class would have been raucous, unendurable—except through the rosy spectacles of intoxication.
Dark was creeping down. Talking little—Anthony in careless, casual questions, the other two with provincial economy of phrase and burden—they sauntered past another corner, and another. In the middle of a block they stopped beneath a lamp-post.
"I live near here," explained the other girl.
"I live around the block," said the girl in lilac.
"Can I see you home?"
"To the corner, if you want to."
The other girl took a few steps backward. Anthony removed his hat.
"You're supposed to salute," said the girl in lilac with a laugh. "All the soldiers salute."
"I'll learn," he responded soberly.
The other girl said, "Well—" hesitated, then added, "call me up to-morrow, Dot," and retreated from the yellow circle of the street-lamp. Then, in silence, Anthony and the girl in lilac walked the three blocks to the small rickety house which was her home. Outside the wooden gate she hesitated.