"She'll never slap him. He'll never need it. She's talked him clear
out of the mood!"

"Yes, she has--yes, she has," came from me. And Henry insisted:

"She may have to slap the Doctor; but she has steered this boy out
of the danger zone into the open sea of friendship."

"Oh, yes, she has; oh, yes, she has," came the echo from the other
bed! And Henry subsided.

But the buzzing about the hospital would not let us sleep. At three
o'clock evidently they were serving tea to the nurses, or lunch of
some kind. The moon was shining straight down into the court; the
Gilded Youth and the Eager Soul had gone in, and another couple,
a stenographer and a hospital orderly were using it as a parlour.

"Queer, queer business, this love-making under the rustle of the
wings of death," said Henry. A French plane flying across had filled
the compound for a moment. But everyone soon recognized its peculiar
buzz. Then for a few seconds from afar came the low ominous hum
of the German planes. But they circled away from us. Perhaps the
French drove them back. However, it was the excitement in the court
that caused Henry's remark. For the young people did not deflect
their monotonous course about the compound, when the sky-gazers had
returned indoors. Around and around they went, talking, talking,
talking, with the low insistent murmur of deeply interested people.
Their nerves were taut; emotion was raw; they were young, and their
blood moved riotously. And there was the moon, the moon that, since