“I don’t see why we’re to be put to it,” returned Morry, gazing at the girl before him with doglike devotion. “Belted things always did look well on me, you know, Nell. I’m slim waisted.” “Slim in every way, Morry,” the girl said laughing. “Morrison Copley, S. S. quite fits you. Slim slacker. My! _I’d_ be ashamed if _I_ were a man----” “Plenty of fellows are going. Those that like army life and--and all that,” complained Morry. “I don’t see why you should hound me, all the time, Nell. And mothaw really would make an awful row if I said I wanted to go.” “If you even _said_ so, Morry?” she scoffed. “Say, aren’t you satisfied?” demanded the young man with more energy than usual. “You say you made Frank Barton go to camp. How many scalps do you want to hang in your wigwam?” “Your scalp, as you call it, would look pretty good to me,” she laughed. “I want to send all the fellows I can. Bradley’s half promised. He was in the Guard for two years, but got out because he was too lazy to drill, I suppose,” Miss Fuller said. “Pooh, they’re only stalling,” grumbled Morry. “You know just about how far Brad will get at that training camp. And Barton’s only going for a show. They’ll never get to France, any of them.” “Why don’t _you_ try it, then? If there’s no danger, that should suit _you_, Morry!” “I tell you what!” exclaimed the young man indignantly and forgetting his drawl, “if I go into this thing I’ll go the whole figure, don’t forget that! If other fellows go to France I shall go. I won’t hunt me a soft job here where I can wear a uniform and never smell powder.” Helen Fuller looked at him and thoughtfully. “I wonder, Morry, if you really _would_,” she finally said. Ethel could not help hearing this. Indeed, the heedlessness with which the two conversed on their private affairs in public made it imperative that all within earshot should know what they were talking about. Slight as was Ethel’s interest in the two, and in their affairs, one point did not escape her. It could not fail to impress the girl’s mind and linger in her thoughts. Had Frank Barton gone to the training camp because of the bite of Helen Fuller’s tart tongue? Miss Fuller was taking much commendation for inspiring the manager of the Hapwood-Diller Company with patriotism. Was Barton’s brand of patriotism of that character? How much influence did the girl really have over him? These questions could not be stilled in Ethel’s mind. She reverted to them time and again. Helen’s claim that her influence drove her young men friends to patriotic service seemed to be believed by other people. Somebody told Ethel on Sunday at church that Charlie Bradley and young Copley had both gone to the officers’ camp. “Of course, it’s more of a lark than anything else for most of those who go,” said the person who told Ethel. “Fancy Morry Copley trying to give orders in that squeaky voice of his!”