“I wish,” said Colonel Fortescue savagely one night in his office, where he always smoked his last cigar, Mrs. Fortescue sitting by, “I wish Broussard would let up a little in his attention to me.  I know exactly what it means and it is getting to be an awful nuisance.”

“Cheer up,” answered Mrs. Fortescue encouragingly, “he’ll let up on his devotion to you as soon as he marries Anita—­for I have seen ever since the night of the music ride that Anita has a secret preference for him, and it’s very natural—­Broussard is an attractive man.”

“Can’t see it,” growled the Colonel.

“If you would just limber up a little and not be so stiff with him,” urged Mrs. Fortescue, “let him see he can have Anita.”

“How can I limber up and tell him he can have Anita?” roared the Colonel.  “The fellow hasn’t asked me for Anita.”

“He’s asking you all the time,” answered Mrs. Fortescue, smiling.

Colonel Fortescue looked up at her with sombre eyes.  He had seen Anita become the target for the flashing eyes of junior officers.  He realized that Mrs. Fortescue, woman-like, did not share and could not understand the pangs of his soul at the thought of parting with Anita.  He had often observed that mothers willingly gave their daughters in marriage, but he had never seen a father give up his daughter cheerfully to another man.  Mrs. Fortescue saw something of this in Colonel Fortescue’s face and leaned her cheek against his.

“Dear,” she said, “I believe most fathers suffer as you do at the thought of giving up a daughter and some day I shall suffer the same at giving up my son to another woman.  So, after all, since our children will take on a new love, we must return to our honeymoon days and not let anything matter so long as we are together.  Then, the After-Clap—­I always feel so ridiculously young whenever I look at that baby.”

At this the Colonel’s heart was soothed and he did not hate Broussard quite so much.

There was, however, no let-up in Broussard’s ardent wooing of the Colonel, who took it a trifle more graciously.  One afternoon, late in December, Broussard, passing the headquarters building, saw Colonel Fortescue’s orderly holding the bridle reins of Gamechick, who was saddled.  Broussard was in his riding clothes and was himself waiting for the horse lent him for the afternoon by a brother officer.  He stopped and began to pat Gamechick’s beautiful neck and the horse, who was, like all intelligent horses, a sentimentalist, rubbed his nose against Broussard’s head, and said, as plainly as a horse can say: 

“Dear master, I love you still.”

Colonel Fortescue, coming out of the gate, saw Broussard, and his heart softened as he recalled the last time he had seen Broussard riding Gamechick.  It was now nearly a year ago.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Broussard,” said the Colonel, “I see you are dressed for riding.  Perhaps you would like to ride that old charger again; if so, I will send for my own horse.  Gamechick belongs to my daughter and I only ride him to keep him in condition, because sometimes she is a little lazy about exercising him.”