The war correspondent's face whitened for an instant, then the colour surged back in waves. "Come out on the balcony," he whispered, "it's insufferable in here."
She followed him through the French window. Their two chairs were in their own particular corner still, placed as they had been every night for a week. He arranged the rose and green velvet cushion at her back precisely as she liked it, and drew his own chair near hers—just close enough not to touch.
A white-coated waiter whisked out of sight tactfully. He was needed within where the lady from Memphis had cornered a hardware drummer from Pittsburg and was coyly inquiring whether or not champagne was intoxicating.
"A week ago to-night," said the war correspondent abruptly. "I believe now that the world was made in seven days. Mine has been made and shattered into atoms in an equal space of time."
"Don't say that! There's good in it—there's got to be good in it somewhere! We'll have to find it together, past all the pain."
The late moon rose slowly above the grove of palms beyond them; the Southern night breathed orange blossoms and roses. A tiny ray of blue light shot from the solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. It was the only ring she wore.
"I can't believe it's true," he said, somewhat roughly. "If you cared as you say you do, you'd"—he choked on the word, and stopped abruptly, but his eyes made his meaning clear.
They were unusual eyes—for a man. So she had thought a week ago, when she went down the corridor to her room at midnight, humming gaily to herself a little fragment of a love song. They were big and brown and boyish, with laughter lurking in their depths—they met her own clearly and honestly, always, and in their look there had never been that which makes a woman ashamed. Yes, they were unusual eyes—for a man.
"Honour is an elastic word," she replied. "For most women, it means only one thing. A woman may lie and steal and nag and break up homes, and steam open other people's letters, and betray her friends, and yet, if she is chaste, she is called honourable. I made up my mind early in life, that I'd make my own personal honour include not only that, but the things men are judged by, too. If a man broke his solemn pledge, you'd call him a coward and a cur. So," she concluded with a pitiful pride, "I'll not break mine."