re it began to look as though
the general were indulging himself. Claret presently succeeded the
sherry, but not until Bentley's health had been drunk again and the
orderly summoned from the front porch to go, with the general's
compliments, and tell him so. "This claret," he then declared, "is some
I saved from the dozen Barry & Patton put aboard the Montana when I
came round to Yuma last year. It's older than Lilian," this with a fond
and playful pinch at the rosy cheek beside him, "and almost as good. No
diluting this, Mr. Willett," for he saw that young officer glancing
from the empurpled glass to the single carafe that adorned the table,
its mate having met dissolution when the general's chest was prematurely
unloaded in Dead Man's Canon _en route_ to the post. "Dilute your
California crudities all you like, but not the red juice from the sunny
vines of France. No, sir! Moreover, this and old Burgundy are the wines
you must drink at blood heat. No Sauturnes or Hocks or champagnes for
us fire worshippers in Arizona! Lilian here and my blessed wife yonder
don't like these red wines for that reason. They want something to cool
their dainty palates, but men, sir, and soldiers---- What's this,
Bella, Bellisima? Salad--French dressing--and cool, too! Bravissima, my
dear! How did you manage it? The olla? Why, of course! Cool anything.
Cool my old head, if need be. Hey, Willett?"

And all this time, when not chatting with the debonair officer at her
side or saying a word to his bronzed, sun-dried, silently observant
comrade opposite, Lilian's fond eyes forever sought her father's
rubicund face, love and admiration in every glance. All this time, even
while in cordial talk with her guests, Mrs. Archer never seemed to lose
a look or word from her soldier liege; never once did her winsome smile
or joyous laugh fail to reward his sallies; never once came there shade
of anxiety upon her beaming face. "The General" was the head of that
house, and they were his loyal subjects. They even sipped at the
outermost ripple of the thimbleful of claret each had permitted Doyle
to pour. Even when a loud "cloop" in the dark passageway to the kitchen
told that another bottle was being opened as the omelet came in, borne
aloft by white-robed Suey, crowned with red poppies and blue blazes,
and set triumphantly before the mistress of the feast, Harris could
detect no flutter of disapprobation. Even when, later still, the
general's eager hand,