"Champagne like this is far too good for the common people," added Cosden turning to Mrs. Thatcher. "How did you do it? It is the apotheosis of gipsy life, and makes me reluctant to return to civilization."
Billy edged around until he gained a seat next to Merry. "This feast might have been in honor of our marriage," he whispered. "It's all your fault that I'm going to war, and if I'm shot up I'll come back and haunt you."
"Don't, Billy!" Merry sputtered, laughing and choking,—"you'll make me swallow this the wrong way. There—" she continued as she recovered; "that's better. Now don't be silly or you'll spoil our fun. We are going to be good friends always, and that's all there is to it."
"You wait. You've been lots happier since I told you that you loved me, now haven't you? I know. You think it's a joke because you think I'm a joke, but when once I've gone to war you'll understand. I'll bet you even that you'll chase after me as a Red Cross nurse, and that I'll die with my head in your lap. Do you take me?"
Phil approached near enough to put an end to the proposition without Merry's reply.
"Do you suppose there's anything in this war talk?" he queried, sitting down beside them.
"Not a thing," his sister replied. "That would be too absurd."
"If there is, I could at least go as a correspondent,—that is, if Dad could spare me. I'm terribly keen about this."
"How could you work me in?" Billy demanded. "I couldn't do any newspaper stunt."
"How about taking pictures to illustrate my articles?"