“But I may have a cup of tea?”

“With or without sugar—­if you really mean it.”

“Of course I mean it.  One of these days you will find my aeroplane at your door—­”

“Good gracious! it will be in pieces, then, for our street isn’t wide enough to give it room.”

“Well, you’ll find me at the door then; and after I have had my cup of tea, with three lumps of sugar, and you have sung a little song—­just to please your father, of course—­we will walk to where my man is waiting with the aeroplane, two or three streets off, and we’ll take a jaunt to Greenwich Park, or Richmond, or wherever you like.”

“That will be very nice,” said Miss Bunce, and Smith wished it were not too dark to see her face, for the tone expressed utter disbelief.  He wanted to assure her that he meant what he said, but, reflecting that he had better not seem to suggest that she doubted it, he said—­

“That’s settled, then.  I suppose it will be three or four months before you get home, and I shan’t have another leave for I don’t know how long, so we won’t fix a date.  Now Mr. Daventry’s bungalow is in this direction; I hope I shall be able to find it.”

They walked about for some minutes before Smith was able to satisfy himself that he had discovered the bungalow.  They passed through the compound, looked with a smile at the native servant sleeping on a mat at the door, and laughed to see him jump when awakened by Smith’s vigorous rapping.  At a word from Smith the man went into the dwelling, but a moment afterwards a window above the entrance was thrown open, and a loud voice demanded what was the matter.

“That you, Daventry?” Smith called.

“Yes.  Who are you?  What’s the matter?”

“It’s Charley Smith.  Sorry to disturb you at this unearthly hour, old chap.”

“What in the name of—!  All right.  I’ll come down.”

They saw a light struck; in a minute they saw framed in the doorway a tall man in pyjamas, holding a candle.

“Come in, Smith,” he cried.  “Why, what the—!  Here, I say, I won’t be a minute.”

Setting down the candle on the doorstep, he hurriedly fled.  Smith glanced at the girl.  She was quite unembarrassed, and when she caught his eye she frankly smiled.  “She’s the right sort,” he said to himself.  Presently Mr. Daventry returned in trousers and a smoking jacket.

“Excuse my leaving you.  I went to—­to waken Mary,” he said.  “She’ll be down in a minute; come in.  Didn’t know you were married, old boy,” he whispered, taking Smith by the arm.

“Hush!” said Smith anxiously, hoping that Margaret Bunce had not caught the words.

Mr. Daventry led them into his dining-room, turned on the lights, and looked inquiringly at his visitors.  The girl was already unpinning her low cloth hat.

“Why, what on earth—!” exclaimed Mr. Daventry; “what have you been doing to yourself, Smith?”