composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his
momentary confusion.

Someone cried gayly across the table to her: "Oh, Miss Claire, you will
not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back
with his ribbons and his medals. Why, we shall all have to bow to you,
Frank!"

"You 're wronging me, Esterton," said Francis. "No foreign decoration
could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair
women of my own State."

"Hear!" cried the ladies.

"Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend
of mine pays his at my expense."

"A good bit of generalship, that, Frank," an old military man broke in.
"Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the
highest art of war."

Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the
women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a
hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand
this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem
to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked
at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose
with the rest of the women to leave the table.

The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories