Frances turned to her, a smile for her childish complaint.
“You’ll get into our soldiering ways in time, Nola. We get up early and live in a hurry, I suppose, because a soldier’s life is traditionally uncertain, and he wants to make the most of his time.”
“And love and ride away,” said Nola, feigning a sigh.
“Do they?” asked Frances, not interested, turning to the window again.
“Of course,” said Nola, positively.
“Like the guardsmen of old England,
Or the beaux sabreurs of France—”
that’s an old border song, did you ever hear it?”
“No, I never did.”
“It’s about the Texas rangers, though, and not real soldiers like you folks. A cavalryman’s wife wrote it; I’ve got it in a book.”