“Know him!” the officer’s companion answered; he was a gray-haired man who looked as if he had been a sportsman. “Probably you do know him—I wonder who doesn’t. It’s Archie La Planta, one of the most popular men in town, some say because he’s so handsome, but I expect it’s largely because he is such a good matrimonial catch.”
“Why isn’t he serving?”
“Oh, ask me another, Charlie. Why are half the youths one meets not serving? They’ve managed to wangle it somehow. Haven’t you ever met him?”
“Not to the best of my recollection. You see, I’ve been in France three years. But I am sure I have seen him somewhere.”
“Here he comes. I’ll introduce you. He knows everybody worth knowing, and is quite an interesting lad.”
La Planta was about to cross the street, when he caught sight of his friend on the pavement, hesitated an instant, then waited for his friend and the wounded officer to come up.
“’Morning, Archie,” the man exclaimed who had told Captain Preston who La Planta was. “Preston, let me introduce Mr. La Planta.”
The two men bowed formally to each other.
“Archie, who are those two ladies to whom you were talking, if you don’t mind my asking?” his friend said a moment later.
La Planta told him.