Anita passed on, her face pale in spite of the chaplain’s words.  The picture of Broussard folding his cape around Mrs. Lawrence’s shoulders was strangely photographed upon her mind.  She wished she had not seen it.

Whenever there was an accident, however small, on the aviation field the whole post was anxious and quivering.  Colonel Fortescue and Anita were both silent and preoccupied at luncheon, and Mrs. Fortescue, who never lost her brave cheerfulness, tried to interest them in the dinner that was to be given that evening, and Anita’s music, but without much success.

“I declare, Jack,” cried Mrs. Fortescue, “if I only knew the aviation days in advance I would never arrange a dinner on one of those days.  You are as solemn as a mute at a funeral, and Anita always looks like a ghost when she has been out to the aviation field.  For my part, I do not allow myself to see the aviation field nor even to think about it.”

“But you say a great many prayers on aviation days,” replied Colonel Fortescue, smiling.

Mrs. Fortescue admitted this, but reminded her husband that she believed in keeping a stiff spirit.

“The man Lawrence is not much hurt,” said Colonel Fortescue.  “He wanted to be taken to his quarters where his wife could nurse him, and the surgeon allowed it, after dressing his cuts and bruises.”

Anita still looked so grave that Colonel Fortescue said to her: 

“How about a ride this afternoon, Anita?  We can get back in time for you to dress for the dinner.”

“Do go, Anita,” urged Mrs. Fortescue plaintively, “it is such a relief to have your father out of the house when I am arranging for a dinner of twenty-four.”

It was one of the great treats of Anita’s simple life to ride with her father and the proposition brought a smile, at last, into her serious face.

“At four, then,” said the Colonel, rising to return to the headquarters building, while Anita ran to get his cap, and Mrs. Fortescue fastened his military cape around him, and his gloves were brought by the After-Clap, who had been drilled in this duty.  The Colonel was well coddled, and liked it.

Anita practised on her violin nearly the whole afternoon, and, not satisfied with that, sent a message to Neroda asking him to come at six o’clock, when she would have returned from her ride, and rehearse with her once more the obligatos she was to play to Broussard’s singing.

Anita’s spirits rose as she rode by her father’s side in the biting cold of the wintry afternoon.  They both loved these rides together and the long talks they had then.  The time was, when Colonel Fortescue felt that he knew every thought in Anita’s mind, but not so any longer.  He began to speak of Broussard, to try and search Anita’s mind on that subject, but Anita remained absolutely silent.  The Colonel’s heart sank; Anita was certainly growing up, and had secrets of her own.