Dinings and sendings of flowers, and evening love-makings—­these for the time seemed the main business of Jefferson Barracks.  Social exemptions are always made for Army men, ever more gallant than affluent, and St. Louis entertained these gentlemen mightily with no expectation of equivalent; yet occasionally the sons of Mars gave return entertainments to the limits, or more than the limits, of their purses.  The officers’ balls at these barracks were the envy of all the Army; and I doubt if any regimental bands in the service had reason for more proficiency in waltz time.

Of some of these things my hostess advised me as we sat, for the sake of the shade, on the gallery of Number 16, where Stevenson’s man of all work had brought a glass-topped table and some glasses.  Here Captain Stevenson presently joined us, and after that escape was impossible.

“Do you suppose Mr. Cowles is engaged?” asked Kitty of her husband impersonally, and apropos of nothing that I could see.

“I don’t think so.  He looks too deuced comfortable,” drawled Stevenson.  I smiled.

“If he isn’t engaged he will be before morning,” remarked Kitty, smiling at me.

“Indeed, and to whom, pray?” I inquired.

“How should I know?  Indeed, how should you know?  Any one of a dozen—­first one you see—­first one who sees you; because you are tall, and can dance.”

“I hardly think I should dance.”

“Of course you will dance.  If you refuse you will be put in irons and taken out to-morrow and shot.  It will do you no good to sit and think, poor boy.”

“I have no clothes,” I protested.

“Johnson will have your boxes out in time.  But you don’t want your own clothes.  This is bal masque, of course, and you want some sort of disguise, I think you’d look well in one of Matt’s uniforms.”

“That’s so,” said Stevenson, “we’re about of a size.  Good disguise, too, especially since you’ve never been here.  They’ll wonder who the new officer is, and where he comes from.  I say, Kitty, what an awfully good joke it would be to put him up against two or three of those heartless flirts you call your friends—­Ellen, for instance.”

“There won’t be a button left on the uniform by morning,” said Kitty contemplatively.  “To-night the Army entertains.”

“And conquers,” I suggested.

“Sometimes.  But at the officers’ ball it mostly surrenders.  The casualty list, after one of these balls, is something awful.  After all, Jack, all these modern improvements in arms have not superceded the old bow and arrow.”  She smiled at me with white teeth and lazy eyes.  A handsome woman, Kitty.

“And who is that dangerous flirt you were talking about a moment ago?” I asked her, interested in spite of myself.

“I lose my mess number if I dare to tell.  Oh, they’ll all be here to-night, both Army and civilians.  There’s Sadie Galloway of the Eighth, and Toodie Devlin of Kentucky, and the Evans girl from up North, and Mrs. Willie Weiland—­”