“I was up with Tannhauser last night.  Didn’t get more than an hour’s sleep,” Claude murmured, yawning.

“Yes, I heard you lost your big corporal.  I’m sorry.  I’ve had bad news, too.  It’s out now that we’re to make a French port.  That dashes all my plans.  However, c’est la guerre!” He pushed back his cup with a shrug.  “Take a turn outside?”

Claude had often wondered why Victor liked him, since he was so little Victor’s kind.  “If it isn’t a secret,” he said, “I’d like to know how you ever got into the British army, anyway.”

As they walked up and down in the rain, Victor told his story briefly.  When he had finished High School, he had gone into his father’s bank at Crystal Lake as bookkeeper.  After banking hours he skated, played tennis, or worked in the strawberry-bed, according to the season.  He bought two pairs of white pants every summer and ordered his shirts from Chicago and thought he was a swell, he said.  He got himself engaged to the preacher’s daughter.  Two years ago, the summer he was twenty, his father wanted him to see Niagara Falls; so he wrote a modest check, warned his son against saloons—­Victor had never been inside one—­against expensive hotels and women who came up to ask the time without an introduction, and sent him off, telling him it wasn’t necessary to fee porters or waiters.  At Niagara Falls, Victor fell in with some young Canadian officers who opened his eyes to a great many things.  He went over to Toronto with them.  Enlistment was going strong, and he saw an avenue of escape from the bank and the strawberry bed.  The air force seemed the most brilliant and attractive branch of the service.  They accepted him, and here he was.

“You’ll never go home again,” Claude said with conviction.  “I don’t see you settling down in any little Iowa town.”

“In the air service,” said Victor carelessly, “we don’t concern ourselves about the future.  It’s not worth while.”  He took out a dull gold cigarette case which Claude had noticed before.

“Let me see that a minute, will you?  I’ve often admired it.  A present from somebody you like, isn’t it?”

A twitch of feeling, something quite genuine, passed over the air-man’s boyish face, and his rather small red mouth compressed sharply.  “Yes, a woman I want you to meet.  Here,” twitching his chin over his high collar, “I’ll write Maisie’s address on my card:  `Introducing Lieutenant Wheeler, A.E.F.’  That’s all you’ll need.  If you should get to London before I do, don’t hesitate.  Call on her at once.  Present this card, and she’ll receive you.”

Claude thanked him and put the card in his pocketbook, while Victor lit a cigarette.  “I haven’t forgotten that you’re dining with us at the Savoy, if we happen in London together.  If I’m there, you can always find me.  Her address is mine.  It will really be a great thing for you to meet a woman like Maisie.  She’ll be nice to you, because you’re my friend.”  He went on to say that she had done everything in the world for him; had left her husband and given up her friends on his account.  She now had a studio flat in Chelsea, where she simply waited his coming and dreaded his going.  It was an awful life for her.  She entertained other officers, of course, old acquaintances; but it was all camouflage.  He was the man.