There was something mightier than love after all—mightier even than the love he had for Cary.
And Trevelyan cowered, afraid.
V.
Mackenzie, the surgeon, lounging in a big wicker chair, his heels higher than his head, lazily rolled cigarettes and winked at the dazzling reflection of the sun on the walls of the barracks. Off in the distance he could see the little subaltern walking energetically down the road. The little subaltern was gotten up regardless in white linen. He was evidently on his way to drink tea with the Colonel's daughter.
"My eyes," said Mackenzie, aloud, "Will nothing interfere with his afternoon tea! The devil only knows if he'll be alive this time to-morrow. Better keep cool when he can. He's a blank little fool! Thinks Jessica Q will tumble when he says good-bye—does he? Tea and love-making now!" and the surgeon fanned himself with his hand. The surgeon had never taken kindly to the little subaltern.
Suddenly his feet came down with a crash and he leaned forward in the wicker chair. Bennett had stopped the little subaltern and the little subaltern was talking back excitedly and kicking up the white dust, regardless of the fresh linen suit.
Mackenzie rose and stretched himself.
"Wonder if the old man has issued orders? Something's up, sure as a gun, when that kid forgets Jessica Q and his clothes."
Three of the mess who had been talking earnestly at the end of the piazza, turned at the sound of voices in the road and joined the two there.
"Not Trevelyan, you say? It isn't Trevelyan?" one of them was saying, as Mackenzie came up.