“Well, when you leave here go at once to my bank—it’s on Thirty-fourth Street—and I’ll telephone the cashier. So you’ll not have any difficulty. Will you leave New York at once?”
“I surely will. It’s an awful place. Two years ago when I came here with my company I thought it was grand. But I guess I lost something over there. ... I want to be where it’s quiet. Where I won’t see many people.”
“I think I understand,” returned Carley. “Then I suppose you’re in a hurry to get home? Of course you have a girl you’re just dying to see?”
“No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” he replied, simply. “I was glad I didn’t have to leave a sweetheart behind, when I went to France. But it wouldn’t be so bad to have one to go back to now.”
“Don’t you worry!” exclaimed Carley. “You can take your choice presently. You have the open sesame to every real American girl’s heart.”
“And what is that?” he asked, with a blush.
“Your service to your country,” she said, gravely.
“Well,” he said, with a singular bluntness, “considering I didn’t get any medals or bonuses, I’d like to draw a nice girl.”
“You will,” replied Carley, and made haste to change the subject. “By the way, did you meet Glenn Kilbourne in France?”
“Not that I remember,” rejoined Burton, as he got up, rising rather stiffly by aid of his cane. “I must go, Miss Burch. Really I can’t thank you enough. And I’ll never forget it.”