I was so worried, Pink."
He flushed at that.
"Needn't have worried," he said, rather thickly. "Didn't get to the
front until just before the end. My show was made a labor division
in the south of France. If you laugh, I'll take my flowers and go
home."
"Why, Pink dear, I wouldn't laugh for anything. And it was the man
behind the lines who--"
"Won the war," he finished for her, rather grimly. "All right, Lily.
We've heard it before. Anyhow, it's all done and over, and--I
brought gardenias and violets. You used to like 'em."
"It was dear of you to remember."
"Couldn't help remembering. No credit to me. I--you were always in
my mind."
She was busily unwrapping the box.
"Always," he repeated, unsteadily.
"What gorgeous things!" she buried her face in them.
"Did you hear what I said, Lily?"
"Yes, and it's sweet of you. Now sit down and tell me about things.
I've got a lot to tell you, too."
He had a sort of quiet obstinacy, however, and he did not sit down.
When she had done so he stood in front of her, looking down at her.
"You've been in a camp. I know that. I heard it over there. Anne
Devereaux wrote me. It worried me because--we had girls in the
camps over there, and every one of them had a string of suitors a
mile long.
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