“I know, Barry,” she said. “Miss Vincent just told me. Oh, what terrible changes this war brings to us all. We see so many sad things here every day. It's terribly sad for you, Barry.”
“Yes, it is sad, Paula, and it is going to be lonely. You have brought back to me that bright day on the Athabasca. But,” he added earnestly, “after all, in this war everything personal is so small. Besides, he was so splendid, you know, and the boys told me he played the game up there right to the end. So I'm not going to shame him; at least, I'm trying not to.”
But bright as was Barry's smile, Paula caught the quivering of his lips, and turned quickly away from him.
After a moment or two of silence, she cried, with her old impulsiveness, “Now you will both lunch with me. I'm the quartermaster of this outfit, and have a small parlour of my own. We shall have a lovely, cosy time, just Miss Vincent, you and myself together.”
“But,” replied the V. A. D., “I have just arranged with the matron to lunch with her.”
“Oh, rubbish! I'll cut that out, all right. What's the use of being quartermaster if I can't arrange a lunch party to suit myself?”
Still the V. A. D. demurred. With her, breaking an engagement for lunch was a serious affair—was indeed taking a liberty which no English girl would think of doing.
“Oh, that's nonsense!” cried Paula. “I'll make it perfectly all right. Look here,” she cried, wheeling upon the V. A. D., “you Britishers are so terribly correct. I'll show you a little shirtsleeve diplomacy. Besides, if you don't come in on this you can have the matron, and I'll take Barry,” she said with a threatening smile. “Watch me!” she added, as she ran away.
“What a splendid girl!” said the V. A. D. “And that captivating American way she has. Perfectly ripping, I call it. I do hope we shall be friends.”
In a short time Paula came rushing back into the room, announcing triumphantly that arrangements had been made according to her programme, with the matron in hearty accord.