Queer about that German. Not once since he had spoken about him to Elizabeth Oliver on the hill-top, had the night-mare about the bayonet and the hat-pin clutched and held Vincent till he woke up gasping and struggling for sufficient strength to withdraw his slippery shaft of steel. To his surprise he had been able to mention the German twice to his father over their after-dinner cigars; and once he had actually considered telling the inquisitive old governor all about the affair. Unfortunate, concluded Vincent, that he no sooner got rid of the night-mare, than another sort of phantom burden took its place. The night-mare usually had visited Vincent during the first half hour of sleep, somewhere between eleven-thirty and twelve. Now, between eleven-thirty and twelve, he was kept awake wondering against his will, against his judgment, what it would have been like that day on the hilltop, when Elizabeth Oliver had turned on him all aflame and afire, if he had put his arms around her, and kissed her, and told her that he loved her.
Oh, if she only had proved to be the girl he had thought lay hidden beneath the flippant exterior, he would go to her now. He wouldn't wait for wars to end. He was going back into the fight just as soon as his arm was stronger (the golf
