Dick Claiborne had been ill, and was abroad on leave in an effort to
shake off the lingering effects of typhoid fever contracted in the
Philippines. He was under orders to report for duty at Fort Myer on the
first of April, and it was now late March. He and his sister had spent
the morning at their brother's school and were enjoying a late _dejeuner_
at the Monte Rosa. There existed between them a pleasant comradeship that
was in no wise affected by divergent tastes and temperaments. Dick had
just attained his captaincy, and was the youngest man of his rank in the
service. He did not know an orchid from a hollyhock, but no man in the
army was a better judge of a cavalry horse, and if a Wagner recital bored
him to death his spirit rose, nevertheless, to the bugle, and he drilled
his troop until he could play with it and snap it about him like a whip.
Shirley Claiborne had been out of college a year, and afforded a pleasant
refutation of the dull theory that advanced education destroys a girl's
charm, or buoyancy, or whatever it is that is so greatly admired in young
womanhood.
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