a father and a
Colonel could do to keep the junior lieutenants away from Anita, but no
method has yet been found to keep junior officers away from pretty
girls.

There were still twenty minutes before dinner, and the scoundrel, as
Colonel Fortescue classified all the juniors who, like himself, adored
Anita, seemed determined to stay until the musical gong sounded, and
later, if he were asked. This particular scoundrel, Broussard, was the
one to whom the Colonel most objected of all the slim, good-looking
scoundrels who wore shoulder straps, for Broussard had too much money
to spend, and spent it wildly, so the Colonel thought; he, himself, had
something handsome besides his pay, but he had also a sensible father
who held him down. Broussard had too many motors, too many horses, too
many dogs, too many clothes, too many fighting chickens, and, above
all, was too intimate with a certain soldier, a gentleman-ranker who
was disapproved, both of officer and man. A gentleman-ranker is a man
serving in the rank who might be an officer. This one, Lawrence by
name, was a bad lot altogether. The Colonel could add quite a
respectable number of demerits to Broussard's credit. And to make
matters worse, Broussard was a dashing fellow, the best rider in his
troop, and had a way with him that made Anita's eyes soften and her
tea-rose cheeks brighten when he came within her presence.

Meanwhile, Broussard was walking up the long and handsome drawing-room
toward the little glass room at the end, which had been fitted up for
Anita's birds, her doves and her canaries.

Anita, leaning backward in the cushioned window seat, held to her
breast a fluttering white dove. She did not see Broussard until he was
quite in the little room, and had closed the glass door after him. As
Anita gave Broussard her hand, a great wave of delicate color flooded
her face. This quickened the beating of Broussard's heart--Anita did
not blush like that for everybody. She had a gentle aloofness
generally toward men which was a baffling mystery to her mother.

Broussard, being frankly in love with Anita, lost all his importance
and presumption in her sweet presence, and was as gentle and modest as
the white dove that Anita still held to her breast. As he longed to
sit near her and ask her poignant questions, Broussard sat a long way
off and talked common-places, chiefly about birds, of which he showed a
surprising knowledge, gleaned that afternoon fr