"
"Resting?"
"Haven't they earned the right?" she questioned, in swift challenge
to the quiet scorn in his tone.
"Even if the battles are over, the fighting isn't," he answered
tersely. "The glory doesn't lie entirely in the pulverizing the Boer
army; there's a little left for the men who are sweeping up the
pieces."
Her trained eye saw the rising color in his face. Swiftly she
changed the subject.
"Glory for all, enough and to spare," she replied. "But, as I say,
Cape Town is crowded with officers, lying up for repairs, and Ethel
is queen bee among them. It's not only for herself; it is what you
would call Fate. She happens to be the only girl of her set who is
just out from London; she had met a good many of them there, and now
she is holding a veritable salon. She even has one sacred teacup,
set up on a high shelf ever since the day that Baden-Powell used
it."
Weldon smiled.
"Miss Dent is a hero-worshipper," he commented.
"So are we all, in certain directions. Moreover, most women like
their heroes to have a little personality. One can't make one's
admiration stick to a blank wall of impersonal perfection."
Weldon's mind moved swiftly backwards to two blue, black-fringed
eyes glowing out from a dust-streaked face.
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