“Much business,” I assented, “in many parts of the country.  But most of all with men of the Army.  So Captain Orme—­since we must call him Captain and not minister—­was so good as to inform you of my private matters.”

“Yes.”  Again she looked at me squarely, with defiance.  “I know all about it.  I know all about that girl.”

So there it was!  But I kept myself under whip hand still.  “I am very glad.  It will save me telling you of myself.  It is not always that one has the good fortune of such early messengers.”

“Go on,” she said bitterly, “tell me about her.”

“I have no praises to sound for her.  I do not wish to speak of this, if you prefer to hear it from others than myself.”

She only smiled enigmatically, her mouth crooking in some confidence she held with herself, but not with me.  “It was natural,” she said at last, slowly.  “Doubtless I would have done as she did.  Doubtless any other man would have done precisely as you did.  That is the way with men.  After all, I suppose the world is the world, and that we are as we are.  The girl who is closest to a man has the best chance with him.  Opportunity is much, very much.  Secrecy is everything.”

I found nothing which suited me to say; but presently she went on, again leaning on the ivy-covered stone pillar of the gate, her hat held by its strings at her side, her body not imprisoned by my arms.

“Why should you not both have done so?” she resumed, bitterly.  “We are all human.”

“Why should we not have done what—­what is it that you mean?” I demanded of her.

“Why, there was she, engaged to Mr. Belknap, as I am told; and there were you, engaged to a certain young lady by the name of Grace Sheraton, very far away.  And you were conveniently lost—­very conveniently—­and you found each other’s society agreeable.  You kept away for some weeks or months, both of you forgetting.  It was idyllic—­ideal.  You were not precisely babes in the woods.  You were a man and a woman.  I presume you enjoyed yourselves, after a very possible little fashion—­I do not blame you—­I say I might have done the same.  I should like to know it for a time myself—­freedom!  I do not blame you.  Only,” she said slowly, “in society we do not have freedom.  Here it is different.  I suppose different laws apply, different customs!”

“Miss Grace,” said I, “I do not in the least understand you.  You are not the same girl I left.”

“No, I am not.  But that is not my fault.  Can not a woman be free as much as a man?  Have I not right as much as you?  Have you not been free?”

“One thing only I want to say,” I rejoined, “and it is this, which I ought not to say at all.  If you mean anything regarding Ellen Meriwether, I have to tell you, or any one, that she is clean—­mind, body, soul, heart—­as clean as when I saw her first.”

“Do you know, I like you for saying that!” she retorted.  “I would never marry a man who knew nothing of other women—­I don’t want a milksop; and I would not marry a man who would not lie for the sake of a sweetheart.  You lie beautifully!  Do you know, Jack, I believe you are a bit of a gentleman, after all!