He caught the slight averting of Iden's eyes from his uniform, and divined how the father of Mel Iden hated soldiers.

But nothing could daunt Lane.
"Yes, Lane, I remember you," returned Iden.

He returned Lane's hand-clasp, but not cordially.
Lane had mapped out in his mind this little interview.

Taking off his hat, he carefully lowered himself until his back was propped against the tree, and looked frankly at Iden.
"It's warm.

And I tire so easily.