She was aware of him and of his bold scrutiny, of course––noticed his brilliant eyes, no doubt––but paid no heed to him––was otherwise preoccupied with this young man beside her, whom she had neither seen nor thought about since the day she had landed in New York from the rusty little Danish steamer Elsinore.
And now, although he had meant nothing at all to her except an episode already forgotten, to meet him again had instantly meant something to her.
For this man now represented to her a link with the exciting past––this young soldier who had been fresh from the furnace when she had met him on deck as the Elsinore passed in between the forts in the grey of early morning.
The encounter was exciting her a little, too, over-emphasising its importance.
“Fancy!” she repeated, “my encountering you here and in civilian dress! Were you dreadfully disappointed by the armistice?”
“I’m ashamed to say I took it hard,” he admitted.
“So did I. I had hoped so to go to France. And 60 you––oh, I am sorry for you. You were so disgusted at being detailed from the fighting line to Camp Upton! And now the war is over. What a void!”
“You’re very frank,” he said. “We’re supposed to rejoice, you know.”
“Oh, of course. I really do rejoice–––”
They both laughed.