“What a jolly little rascal!” cried Beverley, whose experience with small children was nil.

The After-Clap returned the compliment, by rapturously hugging Beverley.  In fact, they became such chums on the spot that much difficulty was experienced in persuading the After-Clap to go to bed when Mrs. McGillicuddy was ready for him.

There was a joyous dinner.  Beverley, like Colonel Fortescue, was surprised to find that Anita was grown up, like other girls of eighteen.  Also, that his father was almost as young and handsome as his mother.

“I say, Colonel,” said Beverley, “you’re the handsomest Colonel in the army.”

The Colonel smiled.

“For your age, that is.”

The Colonel scowled.

“Your father’s touchy about his age,” Mrs. Fortescue explained, “and so am I, so please, Beverley, keep away from the unpleasant subject.”

Beverley Fortescue had three months’ leave before taking up his duties as an officer at the post and it was a halcyon time at the Commandant’s house.  In spite of the torrid heat, there were parties of pleasure and little dances, and all the round of gaieties that prevail at army posts.  The Colonel was proud of his well-set-up stripling, although, of course, a boy could never be of so much value in a family as a girl, according to Colonel Fortescue’s philosophy.  With Mrs. Fortescue it was the other way.  Dear as was Anita to her, the mother’s heart was triumphant over her soldier son.  As for the After-Clap, he frankly repudiated his whole domestic circle, except Kettle, for Beverley, who was as tall and strong as his father and could do many more things amusing to a two-and-half-year-old than a stern and dignified Colonel.  Anita and Beverley were as intimate and passionately fond of each other as when they were little playmates.  Beverley asked some questions of his mother concerning Anita.

“All the fellows like to dance with her and ride with her, but she treats them all as she does old Conway.”

“Old Conway,” Colonel Fortescue’s aide, was barely turned thirty; but to the twenty-one-year-old Beverley, Conway seemed an aged veteran.

“I can’t understand it,” plaintively responded Mrs. Fortescue.  “Sometimes I think Anita has no coquetry in her.  Again I think she is the worst type of coquette—­she treats all men alike.  You remember my writing you about Anita being thrown at the music ride last Christmas Eve, and Broussard jumping his horse over her?”

“I should think so,” answered Beverley.  “I wish you could have seen the letter the Colonel wrote me about it.  I felt more sorry for what the poor old chap must have suffered than for you, mother.”

“Don’t call your father ‘the poor old chap,’” said Mrs. Fortescue positively.  “And don’t make jokes about the After-Clap being the child of his old age.  Your father doesn’t like it.  It’s perfectly disgusting the way young people now speak of their elders, who are barely middle-aged, as if they were centenarians.  Well, I think, and your father thinks, that Anita had a fancy for Broussard.  He was a very attractive man.  Your father thought him a prodigal with his money, but, of course, some fault must be found with every man who looks at Anita.”