"Fellows," said Johnny McLean, "I'm sorry, but I've got to sneak.
I'm going back to town."

Sentences and scraps of sentences came flying at him from all over.
"Hold him down"--"Chain him up"--"Going--tommy-rot--can't go!"
"You'll be game for the roundup at eleven--you've got to be."
"Our darling boy--he's got to be," and more language.

"All right for eleven," Johnny agreed. "I'll be at head-quarters
then--but I'm going now," and he went.

He found her in a garden, which is the best place to make love.
Each place is the best. And in some mystical manner all the doubt
and unhappiness which had been gone over in labored volumes of
thoughts by each alone, melted to nothing, at two or three broken
sentences. There seemed to be nothing to say, for everything was
said in a wordless, clear mode of understanding, which lovers and
saints know. There was little plot to it, yet there was no lack
of interest. In fact so light-footed were the swift moments in the
rose-scented dark garden that Johnny McLean forgot, as others have
forgotten before him, that time was. He forgot that magnificent
lot of fellows, his classmates; there was not a circumstance
outside of the shadowy garden which he did not whole-heartedly
forget. Till a shock brought him to.

The town was alive with bands and cheers and shouts and marching;
the distinct noises rose and fell and fused and separated, but kept
their distance. When one body of sound, which unnoticed by the
lovers had been growing less vague, more compact, broke all at
once into loud proximity--men marching, men shouting, men singing.