“We have a long journey before us, and may as well get to know each other by name,” he said.
The girl smiled acquiescence. She read, “Captain Arthur Dalroy, 2nd Bengal Lancers, Junior United Service Club.”
“I haven’t a card in my bag,” she said simply, “but my name is Beresford—Irene Beresford—Miss Beresford,” and she coloured prettily. “I have made an effort of the explanation,” she went on; “but I think it is stupid of women not to let people know at once whether they are married or single.”
“I’ll be equally candid,” he replied. “I’m not married, nor likely to be.”
“Is that defiance, or merely self-defence?”
“Neither. A bald fact. I hold with Kitchener that a soldier should devote himself exclusively to his profession.”
“It would certainly be well for many a heart-broken woman in Europe to-day if all soldiers shared your opinion,” was the answer; and Dalroy knew that his vis-à-vis had deftly guided their chatter on to a more sedate plane.
The train halted an unconscionable time at a suburban station, and again at Charlottenburg. The four Germans in the compartment, all Prussian officers, commented on the delay, and one of them made a joke of it.
“The signals must be against us at Liège,” he laughed.
“Perhaps England has sent a regiment of Territorials across by the Ostend boat,” chimed in another. Then he turned to Dalroy, and said civilly, “You are English. Your country will not be so mad as to join in this adventure, will she?”