goin' back on one of the
boys for the price of a meal."

Our hands met, clasped closely lying across the desk, our eyes glowing
with suddenly aroused memories of comradeship in a foreign land. Then
I repinned the medal to the front of my rough shirt, gulping a bit as I
strove to speak calmly.

"It's a woman," I explained, nodding toward the door. "I found her out
there hungry. Could we have that table yonder behind the screen?"

"Sure; and don't be afraid to order the best in the house. Damn me,
but that was some fight we had at Baliancan, even if the history folks
don't say much about it. I can see you Third Cavalry fellows goin' in
now, up to yer waists in water, an' we wa'nt mor'n a hundred feet
behind. Did you see them Filipino trenches after we took 'em?"

I shook my head.

"No; I was down and out long before then."

"Hell of a sight, believe me--jammed full o' little brown men, deader
than door nails. They died a fighting, all right, an' they sure gave
us a belly full that day. Lost sixteen out o' my company."

Our eyes lingered an instant on each other's faces; then I turned away,
and walked to the door. She was waiting motionless, her back to the
window, and, when I spoke, followed me in without a word. I led the
way to the secluded table behind the screen, seated her, and took the
chair opposite. Without questioning her wishes I ordered for both, the
girl sitting in silence, her face bent low over the menu card, a red
flush on either cheek. Still obsessed with vague suspicion of her
character I could not forbear a suggestion.

"What will you have to drink?" I asked, as the waiter turned aside. "I
'd rather like a cocktail to drive the wet out of my system. Shall I
make it two?"

She glanced up quickly from under shading lashes, her eyes, big and
brown, meeting my own.

"I prefer coffee; that will be quite sufficient."

I ran my hand through my hair.

"Don't you ever drink anything stronger?" I asked, almost tempted to
apologize. "You know lots of women do."

"I have never formed the habit."

"Cocktail for you, sir?" said the waiter briskly, flipping his towel on
the table. "Martini, or Manhattan?"

I dropped my gaze from the girl's face to the menu card. It seemed to
me her eyes had pleaded with me.

"No; make mine coffee too," I replied gravely, "and hurry the cook up,
will you."

We sat there waiting without further speech, she nervously fingering
the card, her eyes vei