instantly.  Instead of speaking this word of betrayal she had deliberately placed herself in my defence, deceiving her own people.  Why?  Was there more than a mere impulse behind the action?  Was she doing for me more than she would have done for another under similar circumstances?  Was this act merely the result of womanly sympathy?  For the life of me I could not determine.  She was like two individuals, so swiftly did her moods change—­one moment impressing me as a laughing girl, the next leaving me convinced she was a serious-minded woman.  Just as I thought I knew, believed I understood, she would change into another personality, leaving me more bewildered than ever.  Suddenly I thought again of Le Gaire, remembering his dark, handsome face, his manner of distinction, and there came to me mistily the words overheard during their unexpected meeting.  She had called him “Gerald,” and there had been other words exchanged—­aye! he had even taunted her with their engagement, objecting to her being alone with me, and she had denied nothing.  Somehow this suddenly recurring memory left me hot and angry.  I disliked Le Gaire; from the very first moment of gazing into his dark, sneering eyes I had felt antagonism, a disposition to quarrel; but now something more potent rose between us—­the girl.  I was not blind to the man’s attractions; I could easily understand how he could find way to a girl’s heart.  But a man can judge a man best, and every instinct of my nature warned me against this fellow.  The very first sound of his voice had prejudiced me, and when I saw him I knew I was right—­with him manliness was but veneer.  And Billie!  The name sounded soft, sweet, womanly now and I longed to speak it in her presence.  Billie!  I said it over and over again reverently, her face floating before me in memory, and then my lips closed in sudden determination:  not without a fight, a hard fight, was this gray-jacket going to retain her, going to keep her from me.

It was a mad resolve; yet it was there, in my heart and upon my lips.  I had come upon the field late, come in the wrong uniform, but I was sufficiently in earnest now.  The girl liked me, served me, and she interested me as no other ever had.  Her very moods, piquant, reserved, aroused my ambition, stimulated my purpose, and Le Gaire—­the very thought of him was a thorn in the flesh.  I have wondered since if I really loved her then; I do not know, but I dreamed of her, idealized her, my heart throbbing at every unusual sound without, hoping she might come again.  I could hear the noise of the cavalry camp on the lawn, and the tramp of feet in the hall.  Occasionally some voice sounded clear enough so I could distinguish the words.  I opened the door leading into the dining-room, but that apartment was deserted.  There was evidently nothing to do but wait, and I lay down on the couch between the windows, looking up at the green leaves shaking in the breeze.  Fatigued with the labors of the previous night, before I realized the possibility I was fast asleep.