Tom Nichols, looking every inch a soldier, rode at the head of his battery and, after saluting the President, backed his horse to the side of the hall and took up his station there, followed by his trumpeter. Janet, her pulses dancing with excitement, leaned far over the balcony, and watched the battery drill, that most stirring of spectacles, with breathless attention. If her eyes stole now and then from the racing mounted cannoniers, the plunging horses, and leaping gun-carriages to a soldierly figure sitting erect and watchful on a restive charger, no one, not even Barnard, was aware of it. The two other members of their party sitting in the gallery beneath them, had been almost as absorbed in the exhibition drill as Janet and Barnard. “Tired?” inquired Duncan, turning to Marjorie. She had watched each thrilling performance in silent enjoyment, replying mostly in monosyllables to his few remarks, and Duncan, slowly learning to divine her moods and tenses, had been content to sit quietly by her side, only occasionally stealing covert glances in her direction. “No, indeed,” she protested. “I feel ‘abominably refreshed,’ as Aunt Yvonett puts it. Is the drill over?” “Apparently so.” Duncan rose and Marjorie followed his example. “Stand here out of the crowd,” he suggested a moment later as they approached the entrance. “We can see Janet and Barnard as they come down.” But the crowd had thinned materially, and the band was playing its last stirring quick-step, before the others put in their appearance. “Awfully sorry to be so long,” apologized Barnard, holding open the large swing door for Marjorie to pass through. “Where to now?” “There’s a tea-dance at the Administration Building,” began Marjorie. “Shall we go over there?” “I have a better plan than that,” put in a voice behind her, and Tom Nichols joined the little group. “Come and have tea with me; I am particularly anxious to have you see my quarters.” The invitation was addressed to Marjorie and her companions, but Tom’s eyes sought Janet, and impulsively she responded to their mute pleading. “Of course we’ll come,” and slipping her hand inside Marjorie’s arm, she kept step with Tom as he piloted them across the parade grounds. Duncan paused long enough to direct his chauffeur to bring the limousine to Captain Nichols’ quarters, then hastened after them. With no little pride Tom ushered his guests into his semi-detached house. “Let me help you off with your coat, Miss Fordyce,” he said, but he was too late; Barnard was already assisting her. Slightly discomforted Tom turned back to Marjorie, only to find she had stepped into the parlor, and was gazing into the lighted dining-room which opened out of it. “Are you a magician, Tom?” she asked. “Here is your table all set for tea, and you only knew three minutes ago that we were coming.”