“You don’t mean that fellow Dawson has presumed to come here to the hospital to call upon you?” a masculine voice growled.
“Do you know anything against Mr. Dawson, Lieutenant Martin?” Eugenia inquired. “I was under the impression that he was one of the most brilliant of the newspaper men who are to follow the fortunes of our American army in France. I believe also the correspondents are to be accredited as officers without special rank. But is there anything that is personal?”
Lieutenant Martin looked very much as if he wished to answer “yes;” nevertheless he shook his head.
“No, it is simply that I don’t like him. I presume he is clever enough. But if Miss Davis does not mind, I am not sufficiently well for her to leave me this afternoon. Tomorrow perhaps—”
“Nonsense, Lieutenant,” Eugenia laughed. “I’ll see that you are not neglected. Go on, Nona dear, and decide when you talk with Mr. Dawson. I found him very agreeable. He is in the reception room.”
More than an hour later Nona and Philip Dawson sat down in an orchard several miles from the American hospital. They were under one of many peach trees now covered with ripening fruit, as it was late summer.
“I am glad you have liked our walk, Miss Davis. Yes, I have explored this French countryside for many miles. Is it not splendid, whenever there has been the least chance, the French have gone on cultivating their orchards and gardens with their wonderful, patient thrift? I am going to find you some fruit, then, later, when you have rested, perhaps you will walk up with me to the little French farmhouse over there, as I should rather pay for it. The French people will probably refuse, so you must help me. But one never knows how many people they may be trying to support from one of these small farms.”
Nona allowed Philip Dawson to sacrifice his handkerchief and to peel her a great number of peaches which she ate with the deepest satisfaction.
She had just had a charming afternoon. Her companion had been gay and agreeable and had told her many interesting facts. Unlike the greater number of the members of his profession, he seemed to have but little personal vanity and seldom figured as the hero of his own stories.
She had been right, during their one brief former meeting, in thinking she would like him. She had already forgotten any peculiarities in his personal appearance. His hat was on the ground at this moment and his high forehead and humorous eyes, his fine mouth, made his face too interesting to be ugly.