“Wipes,” said Fitzhugh, “you’re a born gentleman, you certainly are. Your tact is remarkable. I’ll make this up to you somehow, Wipesy.”
“F’r me to sind in th’ bill whin th’ job’s done,” repeated Wipes oracularly, and went.
To the nervous and lonely cadet it was a godsend that he could even partly discuss his dilemma with Julia Duncan. He longed to tell her the whole situation, but feared her teasing spirit. She would worry him unmercifully, and it might make him ridiculous in her eyes—he dared not risk that. It was not so bad to pose as a philanthropist, unintentionally of course. He chuckled with satisfaction at the accidental air of the discovery—of how he appeared not to let his right hand know the good his left was doing. But he must see her and talk to her about it.
The next day was Sunday, and when the cadets had formed and marched away after service, a gallant and soldierly sight, he dashed back from his quarters to the chapel door, and walked home with her. He blessed Colonel Emerson for living far around the turn, beyond the Parade—a quarter of a mile more with her was worth while.
She began talking about the leaves that were coming on the trees, the spring in the air, the misty look over the piled hills beyond the river, and Fitzhugh fairly jumped with nervousness. It would seem like ostentation to lug in the coachman’s baby before she spoke of it; but here they were half-way around the square, and she was still going on about springtime! And her eyes were dancing as if it were the best joke in the world. He wrenched the conversation off by main force.
“How is Jack, Miss Julia? Does he write you at all?”
“Every day.” She glanced up at him. “Every morning I get a nasty letter that smells like a drug-store, and every afternoon I send him a nice, clean one. I shall write him something about you to-day.”
“About me?” Fitzhugh tried to be careless. “Is there anything interesting enough about me to put in writing?”
The girl’s glancing eyes seemed to watch him. “Yes, indeed. I’m going to tell him how good you are.” The cadet felt a dash of discomfort, and the drawling, soft voice went on. “I think he’ll be surprised. Isn’t it a new thing, this Coachman’s Babies’ Fresh Air Society of yours and Mr. Wipes?”
The cadet stammered. “I—it was an accident—I—I didn’t mean any one to know about it.”