"Captain Phipps says he knows more about the stage than any man in the country." "What does the Captain know about it?" asked Quin. "Captain Phipps? Why, he's a playwright. He means to devote all his time to the stage as soon as he gets out of the army. You may not believe it, but he is an even better dramatist than he is a doctor." "Oh, yes, I do," said Quin; "that's easy to believe." The sarcasm was lost upon Miss Bartlett, who was intent upon delivering her message from the Martels. They had sent word that they expected Quin to come straight to them when he got his discharge, and that his room was waiting for him. "And you?" asked Quin eagerly. "You'll be there every Sunday?" Her face, which had been all smiles, underwent a sudden change. She said with something perilously like a pout: "No, I shan't; I'm to be shipped off to school next week." "School?" repeated Quin incredulously. "What do you want to be going back to school for?" "I _don't_ want to. I hate it. It's the price I am paying for that dance I had with you at the Hawaiian Garden--that and other things." "What do you mean?" "Some old tabby of a chaperon saw me there and came and told my grandmother." "But what could she have told? You didn't do anything you oughtn't to." Miss Bartlett shook her head. It was evidently something she could not explain, for she sat staring gloomily at the wall above the bed, then she said abruptly: "Well, I must be going. Good-by if I don't see you again!" "But you will," announced Quin fiercely. "You are going to see me next Sunday at the Martels'. I'll be there if I land in the guard-house for it." "Why, your time's up Saturday, isn't it? Oh! I forgot those three extra days. Captain Phipps has got to let you off. He will if I tell him to." At this something quite unexpected and elemental surged up in Quin. He forgot the amenities that he had taken such pains to observe in Miss Bartlett's presence, he entirely lost sight of the social gap that lay between them, and blurted out with deadly earnestness: "Say, are you his girl?" This had the effect of bringing Miss Bartlett promptly to her feet, and the next instant poor Quin was saying in an agony of regret: "I'm sorry, Miss Bartlett. I didn't mean to be nervy. Honest, I didn't. Wait a minute--_please_----" But she was gone, leaving him to spend the rest of the afternoon searching for a phrase sufficiently odious to express his own opinion of himself. CHAPTER 4