The doctor turned to greet a young lady, tall, strong, and with the beauty of perfect health rather than of classic feature in her face. There was withal a careless disregard of the feminine niceties of dress.
“Oh, Miss Brodie! Will you not come up? We can easily make room.”
“I'd just love to,” cried the girl, “but I'm only a humble member of the procession, following the band and the chariot wheels of the conqueror.” Her strong brown face was all aglow with ardour.
“Conqueror!” growled Dunn. “Not much of a conqueror!”
“Why not? Oh fudge! The game? What matters the game? It's the play we care about.”
“Well spoken, lassie,” said the doctor. “That's the true sport.”
“Aren't they awful?” cried Dunn. “Look at that young Canadian idiot up there.”
“Well, if you ask me, I think he's a perfect dear,” said Miss Brodie, deliberately. “I'm sure I know him; anyway I'm going to encourage him with my approval.” And she waved her hand at Martin.
The master of ceremonies responded by taking off his hat and making a sweeping bow, still keeping up the beat. The crowd, following his eyes, turned their attention to the young lady, much to Dunn's delight.
“Oh,” she gasped, “they'll be chanting me next! Good-bye! I'm off!” And she darted back to the company of her friends marching on the pavement.