"I'm all right," I answered brusquely. "I've had a top-hole time, and
I'm frightfully bucked about it. Let's have a tramp."
He rose too, he looked ill and worried.
"Pam," he said, "things may happen--out there. They do. I don't think
it's necessary to break off our supposed engagement at once. It--it
would be so much easier for you if you didn't. Pam--I wish to God I
could undo things."
"Why?" I queried starkly.
"If you should ever pay for these six weeks--in any way--I'd never
forgive myself."
I tried to reach him. I wish I were big that I could tuck an arm in his
and tell him not to be an idiot, but I dare not touch him. I knew that
I should cry and cling to him.
I do not believe there ever was a more wonderful night, so full to the
brim of scents and moonlight and velvet shadowed mystery.
"I--I want to go home," I said suddenly. "I'm tired."
We hardly spoke again until we reached our garden gate. I had the
feeling that he, too, was surging with the things he wanted to say.
At the gate he put his hands on my shoulders, he was breathing like a
man who had run far.
"Pam," he said, "Walter Markham and I were talking about you
to-night--and I told him the truth, child--that we weren't engaged, and
hadn't any feeling for each other."
"Why?"
"A man knows when another man--cares. I'm glad I'm off to-morrow. Pam,
I was just an incident, kid--an incident."
"Did--did Mr. Markham say--he cared?"
"He's too loyal a pal for that. Besides, until I told him, he
thought----"
"What did he say when you told him?"
"I--I don't know. I just walked out of his hut and came to you. He's
not going with us to-morrow, you know--he's going to take on the new
draft. I--I'm glad. Pam, say that I'm just an incident. I shall feel
better about things, kid! I feel awful!"
"You're just an incident!" I said quietly.