"No. Do you?"
She met his eyes squarely—so squarely that his own rather lost their courage, and he blinked more quickly than is needed with a healthy eye. He had been audacious, but he had not surprised the garrison.
"I have no deep reason for liking or disliking him, and you have," she answered firmly; yet her colour rose slightly, and he thought he had never seen skin that looked so like velvet-creamy, pink velvet.
"You seemed to think differently at Carillon not long ago," he returned.
"That was an accident," she answered calmly. "He was drunk, and that is for forgetting—always."
"Always! Have you seen many men drunk?" he asked quickly. He did not mean to be quizzical, but his voice sounded so, and she detected it.
"Yes, many," she answered with a little ring of defiance in her tone— "many, often."
"Where?" he queried recklessly.
"In Lebanon," she retorted. "In Lebanon—your side."
How different she seemed from a few moments ago when she stood listening like a nymph for the song of the Spirit of the Wood! Now she was gay, buoyant, with a chamois-like alertness and a beaming vigour.