Billy shook off his daze and got to his feet.
“Never mind the ambulance,” he said. “Ask the surgeon to come to Colonel Brent’s quarters. We’ll be there.”
He lifted Jennie’s limp body and made off with her in his arms.
He reached the house unobserved. The inhabitants of the post were still idling over late dinners. Dinner is always late on an active flying field in summer. Billy was aware of a mournful gratitude that he had been spared the sympathetic importunities that an encounter must have evoked. He struggled through the screen door, found Jennie’s room, and laid her on her bed. He wondered where the colonel was. Then he remembered that Jennie’s father had left that morning in answer to a hurried summons from Washington. He would be away overnight.
A hasty search of kitchen and bath provided a basin of water, a chunk of ice and a sponge. Billy assembled these at the bedside. But there was no need. He was dipping the sponge when Jennie’s eyes opened slowly.
They turned on him blankly at first, then widened with glad incredulity. Jennie lay quite still, scanning the haggard face looking fearfully into hers.
Billy stooped and kissed her lips. She sighed gratefully.
“Billy dear,” she whispered, “you’re sure it’s you?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Then—then it wasn’t the⸺”