Underneath his sunburn, his face had taken on new lines of
resolution. His eyes were as clear as ever; but their boyishness was
all in the past. It was a man who had come striding into the room,
that afternoon, and paused beside her tea-table. And Ethel, looking
up, had greeted him as she might have greeted Baden-Powell in his
place.
To a great extent, Cape Town was resuming at least a semblance of
its oldtime social life. Heroes were more plentiful than is
altogether normal, however, and there was a dust-colored tint to
most assemblages. During the past months, the Dents' house had come
to be one of the focal points of society, and there were few men of
note who had failed to mount the wide white steps and pass between
the flanking pillars at the top, on their way to the drawing-room
beyond. Once there, they usually came again, immediately, if they
lingered in Cape Town; on their way back from the front, if no
quicker opportunity offered itself. Many a bullet-interrupted
conversation was resumed there; many a boy, just out from home,
confided his mingled homesickness and aspirations to dainty, white-
haired Mrs. Dent in her easy-chair; many a seasoned officer forgot
his ambitions and his disappointments and even his still sensitive
wounds in the gay talk of the golden-haired girl by the tray.
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