The day after Broussard’s arrival was Sunday and on Sunday afternoons.  Broussard knew he should find Anita at home.  It was the pleasant custom in the C. O.’s house for Mrs. Fortescue to receive the young officers, for whom she always had a tender spot in her heart.  Broussard was one of the later arrivals.  Already through the great windows the blue peaks of ice were seen, touched with a moment’s golden glory from the setting sun, and the purple shadows were softly descending upon the snow-white world.

The first member of the Fortescue household who met Broussard gave him a rapturous greeting.  This was Kettle, who opened the massive doors to visitors.

“Hi!  Mr. Broussard, I cert’ny is glad to see you, and Miss ’Nita, she is right heah in the drawin’-room, and I spect she jump fer joy when she see you!” shouted Kettle, who was a child of nature and spoke the truth as he saw it.

“And I’m glad enough to get back to snow and ice after snakes and mosquitoes and Moros,” replied Broussard.

Immediately a small financial transaction passed between Broussard and Kettle, accompanied with the usual wink from Broussard and grin from Kettle.

“She doan’ take no notice of none of ’em,” whispered Kettle confidentially, “she jes’ smile at ’em all and goes ‘long thinkin’ about you!”

This was most encouraging and Broussard considered it well worth a quarter.

As he entered the drawing-room, bright with a glowing wood fire, Anita, who was entrenched behind a little tea table, rose to greet him.  She wore a little white gown and like another white gown of hers it had a train—­Anita was very anxious to appear as old as possible.  As Broussard spoke to Mrs. Fortescue, who received him with her usual graceful cordiality, they could hear from the plaza the band playing the solemn hymn which precedes the retreat on Sunday afternoons.  Suddenly the sunset gun roared out, showing that the flag was descending from the flagstaff.  At once, every one in the room rose and stood respectfully at attention until the flag came down.  Broussard, in the friendly shadow of the tea table, held on a moment to Anita’s hand.  She looked straight away from Broussard, her red lips smiling at an infatuated second lieutenant on the other side of her, but her cheeks, already of a delicate rose color, hung out the scarlet flag which means, in love, a surrender.  Broussard even felt a faint returning pressure of the fingers, so well screened that only they themselves knew of the meeting of the hands.

Then they all sat down again and the pleasant talk began once more, Anita taking her part with a subdued current of gaiety unusual in her, for, as Mrs. Fortescue was essentially L’Allegro, so Anita was by nature, Il Penseroso.