"But I am not in—love.
"That is why I speak. I can't endure it to let you go—Heaven knows where——"
"Only to New York," she said, demurely, and, in a low voice, she named the street and the number. "In an interval of sanity you shall have an opportunity to reflect on what you have said to me, Mr. Ellis. Being a—a painter—and a rather famous one—for so young a man—you are, no doubt, impulsive—in love with love—not with a girl you met six hours ago."
"But if I am in love with her?"
"We will argue that question another time."
"In New York?"
She looked at him, a gay smile curving her lips. Suddenly the clear, grey eyes filled; a soft, impulsive hand touched his for an instant, then dropped.
"Be careful," she said, unsteadily; "so far, I also have only been in love with love."
Stunned by the rush of emotion he rose to his feet as she rose, eye meeting eye in audacious silence.
Then she was gone, leaving him there—gone like a flash into the camp-hut; he saw the blanket twitching where she had passed behind it; he heard the muffled swan-song of her blanket-mate; he turned his enchanted eyes upon Jones. Jones, his elbows on the ground, chin on his palms, was looking up into the rapt face of Helen Gay, who sat by the fire, her mailed knees gathered up in her slim hands, the reflection of the blaze playing scarlet over her glittering tin armour.