"I should say one had already," grinned Allen, at which Mollie surrendered.
"Everybody's against me," she sighed. "When one whom I have always called my friend, turns agin me—Never mind," she added diplomatically, "I made the layer cake, Allen Washburn—"
"Oh, Mollie, let me carry your pocketbook," begged Allen in alarm.
"How do I know you're honest?" she retorted with a twinkle, and peace was once more restored.
The young folks paired off as usual, and Allen drew Betty a little behind the others. The two formed so handsome a couple that many a passer-by stopped and looked back after them with an admiring smile.
The camp training had improved Allen wonderfully. Always splendidly athletic, he carried himself with a poise and moved with a swing that spoke of perfectly trained muscles, while his handsome face had been tanned to the color of an Indian's.
No wonder that when Allen bent toward her and spoke in a certain tone reserved for her alone, Betty found it hard to look at this tall, bronzed soldier who had been her faithful cavalier for—oh, she could not remember how long.
"I haven't seen you for ages," he murmured, and she glanced sideways at him, dimpling.
"Not for twenty-four whole hours," she agreed soberly. "Wasn't it this time yesterday—"
"What has yesterday to do with it?" he interrupted ardently. "I tell you when a fellow's to be parted from the thing he wants most in the world every twenty-four hours count—"