“But, Somers, how is that pretty young lady who used to knit stockings?” asked the major.
“She is well; I saw her the day I left Boston. I have that same pair of socks on my feet now. I put them on yesterday, when we went forward.”
“Well, but how do you get on?”
“Get on?”
“Bah! You know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” replied Somers, faintly, though a soft blush colored his pale cheek.
“You are courting, of course.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I know it’s nonsense; but young fellows like you are given to such folly.”
“I’m not.”