Sylvia was astonished, because she saw he meant it.

“After your life, you would get horribly tired of it in three months.”

“After my life?  Do you know what that has been?”

“Race meetings, polo matches, hilarious mess dinners.”

He laughed, rather shortly.

“I suppose so; but they’re not the only army duties.  Some of the rest are better, abroad; but they’re frequently accompanied by semi-starvation, scorching heat or stinging cold, and fatigue; and it doesn’t seem to be the rule that those who bear the heaviest strain are remembered when promotion comes.”

Sylvia studied him attentively.  Bland was well and powerfully made, and she liked big men—­there was more satisfaction in bending them to her will.  In spite of his careless good-humor, he bore a certain stamp of distinction; he was an excellent card-player, he could dance exceptionally well, and she had heard him spoken of as a first-class shot.  It was unfortunate that these abilities were of less account in a military career than she had supposed; but, when properly applied, they carried their possessor some distance in other fields.  What was as much to the purpose, Bland appeared to be wealthy, and took a leading part in social amusements and activities.

“I suppose that is the case,” she said sympathetically, in answer to his last remark.  “You have never told me anything about your last campaign.  You were injured in it, were you not?”

The man had his weaknesses, but they did not include any desire to retail his exploits and sufferings to women’s ears.  He would not speak of his wounds, honorably received, or of perils faced as carelessly as he had exposed his men.

“Yes,” he answered.  “But that was bad enough at the time, and the rest of it would make a rather monotonous tale.”

“Surely not!” protested Sylvia.  “The thrill and bustle of a campaign must be wonderfully exciting.”

“The novelty of marching steadily in a blazing sun, drinking bad water, and shoveling trenches half the night, soon wears off,” he said with a short laugh, and changed the subject.  “One could imagine that you’re not fond of quietness.”

Sylvia shivered.  The memory of her two years in Canada could not be banished.  She looked back on them with something like horror.

“No,” she declared; “I hate it!  It’s deadly to me.”

“Well, I’ve an idea.  There’s the Dene Hall charity gymkana comes off in a few days.  It’s semi-private, and I know the people; in fact they’ve made me enter for some of the events.  It’s a pretty ride to the place, and I can get a good car.  Will you come?”

“I don’t know whether I ought,” said Sylvia, with some hesitation.

“Think over it, anyway,” he begged her.