He looked at her, puzzled.
"You're shocked," she laughed. "Well, I'll shock you some more," she said; "I'm sick of uniforms!" She announced fiercely. "These days," she went on, looking away from Vincent, "a man in spick-and-span black evening clothes, and crisp linen, pearl studs and things, and white ties, and snowy waistcoats—you know the sort of rig." (Vincent knew how carefully she had observed his own combination.) "A man dressed like that is a beautiful sight to me!" she brought out. "A young man, I mean," she went on boldly, giving Vincent another of her significant glances—flirting with him quite frankly, of course. He was aware of it—"a young man—who is neither lame, nor halt nor blind." Vincent's scar was on the side away from her.
"I'm glad," he laughed diffidently, "that there's some one who approves. My mother thought it a tragedy that I wouldn't wear my uniform to-night."
"Your uniform!" the girl's face fell. "Have you a uniform? I didn't think you had. I thought you were just a nice man from South America,—or some such place, to whom the war was just thunder and lightning a long way off. I'm disappointed," she pouted. "Run along.
