“Yes, it's quite ready, but you will get me into trouble, miss.”
“Then, I'll get you out again. Load those things in, while I run and change—I'm going to drive you out to your camp,” she said to Barry as she hurried away.
The sergeant shook his head as he looked after her.
“She's a thoroughbred, sir,” he said. “We jump when she asks us for anything. She's a real blooded one; not like some, sir—like some of them fullrigged ones. They keep 'er 'oppin'.”
“Fullrigged ones?” inquired Barry.
“Them nurses, I mean, sir. They loves to 'awe them—them young 'Vaddies,' as we call them—V. A. D., you know, sir. They keeps 'em a 'oppin' proper—scrubbin' floors, runnin' messages, but Miss Vincent, she mostly drives a car.”
While the sergeant was dilating upon the virtues and excellences of the young V. A. D., his men ran out her car, and packed into it the biscuit tins and coffee. By the time the sergeant was ready she was back, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform.
Barry had thought her charming in her V. A. D. dress, but in her uniform she was bewitching. He noticed that her hair clustered in tiny ringlets about her natty little cap, in quite a maddening way. One vagrant curl over her ear had a particular fascination for his eyes. He felt it ought to be tucked in just a shade. He was conscious of an almost irresistible desire to do the tucking in. What would happen if—
“Well, are you ready?” inquired the girl in a quick, businesslike tone.
“What? Oh, yes,” said Barry, recalled to the business of the moment.