He looked her over carefully; looked at her dusty bare ankles, at her walnut-smeared face and throat. She seemed so small, so round-shouldered—so different from what he had expected. They had said that the woman he must find was pretty.
“Was yuh-all fixin’ to meet up with me?” she repeated with a bold laugh.
“I—don’t know,” he said. “By the Eternal, I don’t know, ma’am. But I’m going to find out in right smart time. Did you ever hear anybody speak Latin?”
“Suh?” blankly; and the audacity faded.
“Latin,” he repeated, a trifle discomfited. “For instance, ‘sic itur.’ Do you know what ‘sic itur’ means?”
“Sick—what, suh?”
“‘Sic itur!’ Oh, Lord, she is what she looks like!” he exclaimed in frank despair. He walked to the door, wheeled suddenly, came back and confronted her.
“Either, ma’am, you are the most consummate actress in this war drama, or you don’t know what I’m saying, and you think me crazy.... And now I’ll ask you once for all: Is this the road?”
The Special Messenger looked him full in the eyes; then, as by magic, the loveliest of smiles transfigured the dull, blank features; her round shoulders, pendulous arms, slouching pose, melted into superb symmetry, quickening with grace and youth as she straightened up and faced him, erect, supple, laughing, adorable.
“Sic itur—ad Astra,” she said demurely, and offered him her hand. “Continue,” she added.