side of her, but her cheeks, already of a
delicate rose color, hung out the scarlet flag which means, in love, a
surrender. Broussard even felt a faint returning pressure of the
fingers, so well screened that only they themselves knew of the meeting
of the hands.

Then they all sat down again and the pleasant talk began once more, Anita
taking her part with a subdued current of gaiety unusual in her, for, as
Mrs. Fortescue was essentially L'Allegro, so Anita was by nature, Il
Penseroso.

Once more, when the color-sergeant brought the flag in, and placed it in
a corner of the fine drawing-room, all present stood up; then there was
much merry chatter and tea and chaff and that universal kindliness which
seems to develop around a friendly tea table. One thing surprised
Broussard--not only that Anita appeared quite grown up but that she could
talk of many things of which he had never before heard her speak. As for
the Philippines, she had all the lore about them at her finger tips.
Broussard, watching her out of the tail of his eye, saw that she was no
longer the adorable child, who lived with her birds and her violin, but
an adorable woman, who had learned to think and feel and speak as a
woman. How was it that she had read so many books on the Philippines?

"When did you begin your study of the Philippines?" asked the wily
Broussard.

"Only since January," answered Anita; and realizing that she had
unconsciously revealed a great secret she lowered her lashes and turned
her violet eyes away from Broussard.

That night, over his last cigar in his room at the officers' club,
Broussard began to plan a regular campaign for Anita against Colonel
Fortescue. But ever in the midst of it would come those sweet
inadvertent words of Anita's and Broussard would fall into a delicious
reverie with which Colonel Fortescue had no part. But then Broussard
would come back to the real business of the matter--outgeneralling
Colonel Fortescue--for everybody knew how devoted Anita was to her father
and Broussard considered the C. O. as a lion in his path. Of course, the
old curmudgeon, as Broussard in his own mind called the Colonel, would
rake up a lot of imaginary objections--he always was a martinet, and
would be a stiff proposition to master in the present emergency.
Broussard was tolerably certain of Mrs. Fortescue's assistance, who was
an open and confessed sentimentalist, and was generally understood to be
the guardian ange