HEADQUARTERS
Windenberg in October, flyin’ over the English lines, droppin’ bombs.”
“That was where you were!”
“But I never hit anythin’. Wouldn’t do, you know. Then when I came back I told the War Office. They sent me for the papers. You know the rest.”
“O Cyril, I’m so glad it’s all over. You’ll go to England now and rest.”
“For a while.” And then, “Will you marry me, Doris? Soon?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Whenever you want me.”
“Here? Now?”
“But, Cyril”
“There’s a parson chap about here somewhere. I saw him browsin’ in here the other day.”
“Isn’t it a little”
“Say you will, there’s a dear.”
“Yes, if you wish it. But”
“What?”
“Clothes.”
“Nonsense. You’re jolly handsome in those togs—handsome no end,” he repeated. “Marry me tomorrow, Doris. There’s a dear.”
She leaned her face down upon his hand.
“We’re already married, Cyril. Up there I felt it. Even death couldn’t have separated us.”
“Thank God! Kiss me, Doris.” She obeyed.
“I’ll see Jackson,” he whispered. “He’ll manage it. Resourceful chap, Jackson. He’ll get us a chaplain like pullin’ a rabbit out of a hat.”
She laughed.
“I don’t suppose I’d ever have known you, Cyril, over there in England. You always did wonderful things carelessly, Cyril.”
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