“Well, I don't,” said Lily. And there had been rather a bad half-hour, because he had felt that he had to stick to his thirty-nine guns, whatever they were. He had finished on a rather desperate note of appeal. “See here, Lily,” he had said. “Why do you bother your head about such things, anyhow?” “Because I've got a head, and I want to use it.” “Life's too short.” “Eternity's pretty long. Do you believe in eternity?” And there they were, off again, and of course old Anthony had come in after that, and had wanted to know about his Aunt Marcia, and otherwise had shown every indication of taking root on the hearth rug. Pink was afraid of Anthony. He felt like a stammering fool when Anthony was around. That was why he had invited himself to luncheon. Old Anthony lunched at his club. When he heard Lily coming down the stairs, Pink's honest heart beat somewhat faster. A good many times in France, but particularly on the ship coming back, he had thought about this meeting. In France a fellow had a lot of distractions, and Lily had seemed as dear as ever, but extremely remote. But once turned toward home, and she had filled the entire western horizon. The other men had seen sunsets there, and sometimes a ship, or a school of porpoises. But Pink had seen only Lily. She came in. The dear old girl! The beautiful, wonderful, dear old girl! The-- “Pink!” “H--hello, Lily.” “Why, Pink--you're a man!” “What'd you think I'd be? A girl?” “You've grown.” “Oh, now see here, Lily. I quit growing years ago.” “And to think you are back all right. I was so worried, Pink.” He flushed at that. “Needn't have worried,” he said, rather thickly. “Didn't get to the front until just before the end. My show was made a labor division in the south of France. If you laugh, I'll take my flowers and go home.” “Why, Pink dear, I wouldn't laugh for anything. And it was the man behind the lines who--” “Won the war,” he finished for her, rather grimly. “All right, Lily. We've heard it before. Anyhow, it's all done and over, and--I brought gardenias and violets. You used to like 'em.” “It was dear of you to remember.” “Couldn't help remembering. No credit to me. I--you were always in my mind.” She was busily unwrapping the box. “Always,” he repeated, unsteadily. “What gorgeous things!” she buried her face in them. “Did you hear what I said, Lily?” “Yes, and it's sweet of you. Now sit down and tell me about things. I've got a lot to tell you, too.” He had a sort of quiet obstinacy, however, and he did not sit down. When she had done so he stood in front of her, looking down at her. “You've been in a camp. I know that. I heard it over there. Anne Devereaux wrote me. It worried me because--we had girls in the camps over there, and every one of them had a string of suitors a mile long.”