"Won't you sit down?" he added
quickly, in a more sprightly tone, for he saw she was about to move on.
He motioned towards a log lying beside the path and kicked some branches
out of the way.
After slight hesitation she sat down, burying her shoes in the fallen
leaves.
"You don't like Felix Marchand?" she remarked presently.
"No. Do you?"
She met his eyes squarely--so squarely that his own rather lost their
courage, and he blinked more quickly than is needed with a healthy eye.
He had been audacious, but he had not surprised the garrison.
"I have no deep reason for liking or disliking him, and you have," she
answered firmly; yet her colour rose slightly, and he thought he had
never seen skin that looked so like velvet-creamy, pink velvet.
"You seemed to think differently at Carillon not long ago," he returned.
"That was an accident," she answered calmly. "He was drunk, and that is
for forgetting--always."
"Always! Have you seen many men drunk?" he asked quickly. He did not mean
to be quizzical, but his voice sounded so, and she detected it.
"Yes, many," she answered with a little ring of defiance in her
tone--"many, often."
"Where?" he queried recklessly.
"In Lebanon," she retorted. "In Lebanon--your side.
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