“Good morning, Captain Dunbar!”
He swung off his horse, and there smiling at him with warm friendliness was the little V. A. D.
“I'm awfully sorry,” began Barry, thinking of the impudent song of his comrades. “I mean I'm very glad to see you. I just ran in to tell you how splendidly the coffee went last night. There are a hundred fellows marching along there that are fine and fit just because of your kindness, and I'm here to give you their thanks.”
Barry felt that he was cutting a rather poor figure. His words came haltingly and stumblingly. The suggestive music hall ditty was still in his mind.
“What a splendid band you have,” she said, “and how splendidly the men sing.”
“Sing!” cried Barry indignantly. “Oh, yes, they do sing rather well, don't they?” he added, greatly relieved. “I have only a minute,” he added hurriedly, “but I wanted to see you again, and I wonder if I may drop you a little note now and then, just to—well, hang it all—just to keep in touch with you. I don't want you to quite forget me.”
“Oh, I won't forget you,” she said. The brown eyes looked straight at him. “You see, after all, my uncle knows you so well. Indeed, he told me about you. You see, we really are friends, in a way, aren't we?”
“We are indeed, and you are awfully good. Goodbye!”
“Goodbye,” she said, “and if I leave here soon, I promise to let you know.”
And Barry rode away, his heart in such a turmoil as he had never known. In his ears lingered the music of that soft voice, and his eyes saw a bewildering complexity of dancing ringlets and lustrous glances, until he drew up at the rear of the column and found himself riding once more beside his friend, the M. O.