"I don't care what they think," the girl declared, "so long as I think I'm doing right. That's final."
There was a brief pause. Then O'Reilly admitted: "I'm not seriously concerned over that part of it, either, for you are the best judge of what is right and proper. What does concern me, however, is the effect all this may have upon you, yourself. You're impractical, romantic"—Norine laughed shortly, but he went on, stubbornly—"and just the sort of girl to be carried away by some extravagant impulse."
"What makes you think I'm impractical and romantic?"
"You wouldn't be here, otherwise."
"Very well. What are you trying to get at? What do you mean by 'some extravagant impulse'?"
"I'm afraid"—O'Reilly hesitated, then voiced a fear which had troubled him more than he cared to acknowledge—"I'm afraid of some silly entanglement, some love affair—"
Norine's laughter rang out, spontaneous, unaffected. It served to relieve the momentary tension which had sprung up between them.
"All these men are attracted to you, as it is quite natural they should be," O'Reilly hurried on. "I'm worried to death for fear you'll forget that you're too blamed good for any of them."
"What a conscientious duenna you are!" she told him, "but rest easy; I'm thoroughly homesick, and ready to flunk it all at the first good excuse. I'll make you a promise, Johnnie. If I decide to fall in love with any of these ragged heroes I'll choose you. Most of them think there is something between us, anyhow."
"I don't quite understand how I manage to resist you," O'Reilly told her, "for I think you're perfectly splendid. Probably that's why I'd hate to see you married to some one-legged veteran of this amateur war."