Barton was expecting the Fullers over again in their car on this Sunday, and had accordingly polished his accoutrements and made his quarters presentable. He shared these last with three other men; but they were all off for the day, and he himself was duty-free until taps. So he was not at all surprised when he heard the rustle of crisp skirts and a light tapping on his open door. Before he could reply to the summons he heard Morry Copley’s high voice advising: “He must be there, Miss--ah--Really, I’m suah he’s not gone out of the street this morning. I’ll look around for him if I may?” “Thank you,” said a very cool voice. Morry was evidently not being encouraged. And it was not Helen Fuller who spoke. “Miss Clayton!” Barton appeared with hand outstretched and a real welcome in his eyes. But Copley was not to be easily ignored. “I say, Barton,” he drawled, “I showed her over here from the camp entrance, knowing you were at home, don’t you know.” “Thanks, old fellow,” Barton said. “This is Miss Clayton’s first visit to the camp.” “Oh, I knew that,” Copley agreed, boldly eyeing the girl and showing no desire to relieve them of his presence. One of Barton’s Western brother-rookies would have accused the young exquisite of “horning in.” “I’m suah if I’d ever seen--er--the lady here before I should have remembered her.” Ethel was plainly ruffled; but Frank Barton burst into hearty laughter. He considered Morry quite harmless. “Miss Clayton, I am sure, will allow me to introduce you, Copley,” he said cordially, and then smiled at Ethel. “Mr. Copley comes from our town, Miss Clayton.” “Bah Jove! I saw you before in a tea room once,” Morry burst out. “Suah I did! I was with Miss Fuller, you know. I wonder I did not recognize you before. You weren’t dressed the same, you know.” “If it was on a working day I am sure she was not dressed the same,” Barton said, looking frankly his approval of Ethel’s Sunday appearance. And yet, as she stood bandying light conversation with the two men, Ethel Clayton was secretly hurt. Would Frank Barton have so casually introduced Helen Fuller, for instance, to any companion-in-arms who had forced himself upon them as Morry Copley had? The thought stung her pride. Really Copley seemed more than a little interested in her. He rattled on boldly, and there was not a chance for her to divert his attention that she might speak seriously and personally to the man she had come to see. The latter was unfeignedly glad to see her; but he seemed to consider her visit merely a social one. And that did not altogether please Ethel Clayton. She had come strictly on business. At least, so she had been assuring herself. Yet all Barton seemed to care about the factory and its affairs was expressed in a perfunctory: “Everything going on all right at the works, Miss Clayton? Though of course that is a superfluous question with such capable people as you and Mayberry on the job. I knew it would be that way.”