“Do you know where your husband’s command is stationed?”
“No, I don’t know that either. You see,” I explained, “as he belongs to the cavalry it is much harder to keep up with his whereabouts than if he were in the infantry.”
“What division is he in?”
“General Rooney Lee’s.”
“Do you know what brigade?”
“Chambliss’s.”
“All right. I know what to do with you, then. You stop at Milford. Your husband will come on the freight this afternoon—at least, that’s what I expect him to do. Your best plan is to wait at Milford for him.”
When we reached Milford the conductor took me out and introduced me to the landlord of the tavern, and I was shown into what I suppose might be called by grace the reception-room. It was literally on the ground floor, being built on native brown earth. The ceiling was low, the room was full of smoke, and rough-looking men sat about with pipes in their mouths. I asked for a private room, and was shown into one upstairs, but this was so cold that I went out into the porch which overhung the street and walked up and down in the sun to keep myself warm. Very soon the gong sounded for dinner. I went down, sat with a rough crowd around a long table, swallowed what I could, and went back to my promenade on the porch. After a time an ambulance drove up and stopped under the porch, and an orderly sang out:
“Adjutant of the Thirteenth here?”
I leaned over the railing.