During the drive the girl gave her whole attention to her wheel, as indeed was necessary, for the road was dangerously slippery, and she drove without lights through the black night. Barry kept up an endless stream of talk, set going by her command, as she took her place at the wheel. “Now tell me about Canada. I can listen, but I can't talk.”
In the full tide of his most eloquent passages, Barry found himself growing incoherent at times, for his mind was in a state of oscillation between the wonderful and lustrous qualities of the brown eyes that he remembered flashing upon him in the light of the fire, and that maddening little curl over the girl's ear.
In an unbelievably short time, so it seemed to him, they came upon the rear of a marching column.
“These are your men, I fancy,” she said, “and this will be your camp on the left; I know it well. I've often been here.”
She swung the car off the road into an open field, set out with tents, and brought the car to a stop beside an old ruined factory.
“This, I believe, will be the best place for your purpose,” she said, and sprang from her seat, and ran to the ruin, flashing her torchlight before her. “Here you are,” she said. “This will be just the thing.”
Barry followed her a few steps down into the long, stone-flagged cellar.
“Splendid! This is the very thing,” he cried enthusiastically. “You are really the most wonderful person.”
“Now get your stuff in here,” she ordered. “But what will you do for wood? There is always water,” she added, “in some tanks further on. Come, I'll show you.”
Barry followed her in growing amazement and admiration at her prompt efficiency.