him just before they went inside.

As always George disliked speaking to Sylvia in casual tones of
indifferent topics. She met him at first pleasantly enough on that
ground--too pleasantly, so that he found himself waiting for some
acknowledgment that she had not forgotten; that she still believed in
their quarrel. It came at last rather sharply through the topic that was
universal just then of General Wood's civilian training camps at
Plattsburgh. Lambert had gone. Goodhue would follow the next month,
having agreed to that arrangement for the sake of the office. Even
Blodgett was there. Sylvia took a great pride in the fact, pointed it at
George.

"Although," she laughed, "I'm told he's not popular with his tent mates.
I hear he has a telephone fastened to his tent pole. I don't know
whether that's true. He's never mentioned it. But I do know he has three
secretaries in a house just off the reservation. Of course it's a
sacrifice for him to be at Plattsburgh at all."

George stared at her. There was no question. Her voice, her face,
expressed a tolerant liking for the man. The engagement had lasted
considerably more than a year, and now she had an air of giving a public
reminder of its ultimate outcome. Or was it for him alone, as her
original announcement had been?

"I'm off next month," Goodhue said. "Lambert writes it's good fun and
not at all uncomfortable."

"I'll be with you, Dicky," Dalrymple put in. "Beneficial affair, besides
duty, and all that."

George experienced relief at the very moment he resented her attack
most. It was still worth while trying to hurt him.

"Practically everyone has gone or is going. It's splendid. When are you
booked for, Mr. Morton?"

Even the Sinclairs had silently asked that question. They looked at him
expectantly.

"I'm not going at all," he answered, bluntly.

"I remember," she said. "You didn't believe in war or something, wasn't
it? But this isn't exactly war."

George smiled.

"Scarcely," he said. "It's hiking, singing, playing cards, rattling off
stories, largely done by some old men who couldn't get a job in the army
of Methuselah. Why should I waste my time at that?"

"It's a start," Mr. Sinclair said, seriously. "We have to do something."

George hid his sneer. Everywhere the spirit was growing to make any kind
of a drum that would bang.

"If you don't think Wilson will keep us out of it," he asked, earnestly,
"why not get after Wilson and make him s