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‘Lowe!’ she reproved him, not telling him she was twenty-four, ‘the idea! You go home and tell your mother—I will give you a note to her—and you can write what she says.’

‘But I had rather go with you.’

‘But, dear heart, what good will that do? We are going to take him home, and he is sick. Don’t you see, darling, we can’t do anything until we get him settled, and that you would only be in the way?’

‘In the way?’ he repeated with sharp pain.

‘You know what I mean. We can’t have anything to think about until we get him home, don’t you see?’

‘But you aren’t in love with him?’

‘I swear I’m not. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Then, are you in love with me?’

She drew his face against her knees again. ‘You sweet child,’ she said; ‘of course I won’t tell you—yet.’

And he had to be satisfied with this. They held each other in silence for a time. ‘How good you smell,’ remarked Cadet Lowe at last.

She moved. ‘Come up here by me,’ she commanded, and when he was beside her she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He put his arms around her, and she drew his head between her breasts. After a while she stroked his hair and spoke.