"Yes," he said.
Contented, she turned to her doll again, undressing it deftly, tenderly.
"At moments," she said, "I have an odd idea that it is real. I am not quite sure even now. Do you believe it is alive, Phil? Perhaps, at night, when I am asleep, it becomes alive. . . . This morning I awoke, laughing, laughing in delight—thinking I heard you laughing, too—as once—in the dusk where there were many roses and many stars—big stars, and very, very bright—I saw you—saw you—and the roses—"
She paused with a pained, puzzled look of appeal.
"Where was it, Phil?"
"In Manila town."
"Yes; and there were roses. But I was never there."
"You came out on the veranda and pelted me with roses. There were others there—officers and their wives. Everybody was laughing."
"Yes—but I was not there, Phil. . . . Who—who was the tall, thin bugler who sounded taps?"
"Corrigan."