“It is really, truly you?” she said in a choked voice.

“Of course,” he answered—­and he could not help a little fling.  “You see I am no longer a rabbit.  I don’t like your friend here.  He has tried to sneak a march on me, and I suspect it is not the first.  I feel like hurting him.”

She paid not the least heed to that.

“You were officially reported dead,” she went on.  “Reported shot down behind the German lines a year ago.”

“I know I was reported dead, and so have many other men who still live,” he said gently.  “I was shot down, but I escaped and flew again, and was shot down a second time and still am here not so much the worse.”

Sophie slipped her hand into his and turned on Tommy Ashe.

“And you knew this?” she said slowly.  “Yet you came here to me this morning—­and—­and—­”

She stopped with a break in her voice.

“I didn’t believe you were capable of a thing like that, Tommy,” she continued sadly.  “I’m ashamed of you.  You’d better go away at once.”

Ashe looked at her and then at Thompson, and his face fell.  Thompson, watching him as a man watches his antagonist, saw Tommy’s lips tremble, a suspicious blur creep into his eyes.  Even in his anger he felt sorry for Tommy.

The next instant the two of them stood alone, Sophie’s hand caught fast in his.  She tried to withdraw it.  The red leaped into her cheeks.  But there was still that queer glow in her eyes.

Thompson looked down at the imprisoned hand.

“You’ll never get that away from me again,” he said whimsically.  “You see, I am not a rabbit, but a man, no matter what you thought once.  And when a man really wants a thing, he takes it if he can.  And I want you—­so—­you see?”

For answer Sophie hid her hot face against his breast.

“Ah, I’m ashamed of myself too,” he heard a muffled whisper.  “I sent you away into that hell over there with a sneer instead of a blessing.  And I was too ashamed, and a little afraid, to write and tell you what a fool I was, that I’d made a mistake and was sorry.  I couldn’t do anything only wait, and hope you’d come back.  Didn’t you hate me for my miserable holier-than-thou preachment that day, Wes?”

“Why, no,” he said honestly.  “It hurt like the devil, of course.  You see it was partly true.  I was going along, making money, playing my own little hand for all it was worth.  I couldn’t rush off to the front just to demonstrate to all and sundry—­even to you—­that I was a brave man and a patriot.  You understand, don’t you?  It took me quite a while to feel, to really and truly feel, that I ought to go—­which I suppose you felt right at the beginning.  When I did see it that way—­well, I didn’t advertise.  I just got ready and went.  If you had not been out of sorts that day, I might have gone away with a kiss instead of your contempt.  But I didn’t blame you.  Besides, that’s neither here nor there, now.  You’re a prisoner.  You can only be paroled on condition.”