"You look like a wild rose," he said irrelevantly, then dashed on into a sea of words. "Are you content with this? Do you never feel a divine restlessness in your nature, urging you to be the architect of your own fate? Are you satisfied to be a mere link in the chain of generations? Surely the individualistic instinct is not dead in this country?" He paused, rather astonished, but quite pleased with his burst of oratory. "What would you have me do?" "Anything--everything that expresses your own personality. Be yourself, and get away from type." "I have done a little." "What? Appeared in a few charity _tableaux vivants_? Posed for your photo in the _Sketch_ as a woman interested in war work?" "I am sorry," she said demurely, "that you disapprove of me." "Great Scott!" he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets with an air of defiance, "you are one of the most charming women I've ever seen." He drew himself up to his full height. "But before I succumb to the beauty of these surroundings and the--the--loveliest----" "Yes? Please don't hesitate." "You are mocking me." "Not at all, Don Quixote. Only why shy at the windmill?" He surveyed her carefully with his head cocked to one side. "I believe you have a sense of humor," he said. "The daughter of an earl humorous?" She laughed gaily, and her beauty was exceedingly good to look upon. An uncomfortable feeling crept into the mind of Lawrence Craighouse, officer and satirist, that, though armed with the broadsword of masculine self-assurance, he was being beaten by the stiletto of feminism. His embarrassment, however, was broken by the approach of a servant. "Pardon me," said Lady Dorothy. "It's the mail." She took from the salver a letter, which bore the stamp of the Red Cross, and opened it. "I am so glad," she said, looking up at him; "I have been accepted for France." "As what?" "As a V.A.D., my dear knight. I have been one for two years." He began to think that his broadsword was decidedly worsted, but he made one final and thoroughly masculine attempt to retain the posture of superiority. "I supposed you soothed a great many convalescent and gallant lieutenants?" he said airily. It was a lamentable attempt, but he felt a sudden jealously of all wounded subalterns. She pirouetted daintily. "I was in a Tommies' hospital," she said; "and when I wasn't scrubbing floors I was waiting on the nurses at table--and you have no idea what cats some of them were." Whereupon Lawrence Craighouse of New York handed over his sword and surrendered unconditionally. VII