He would have given a lot for the chance to be proud of her himself. But he was going to France tomorrow—there was no time left for that. With so much fighting and dying to be done, it seemed as though there would never again be time for anything that was personal.

The clamour in the skies had died down.

The crash of guns had been growing infrequent; now it had subsided. The drone of planes could be no more heard. The invader had been driven back; hard on his heels our aerial cavalry were following across the Channel, awaiting their moment to exact revenge when he tried to land.

The restored normality seemed to rouse her reserve. Lifting the sleeping head from her lap, she whispered, "Wake up, Robbie; we can go home now. It's all over."

The officer had risen and stood leaning against the mantel, "So it's good-bye?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You've made me happy when I least expected to be happy. Shall we meet again, I wonder?"

She smiled at his seriousness. "Perhaps. One never knows what the good God will allow. We didn't expect to meet tonight."

He was sensitive to her evasion and laughed, pretending to make light of it. "We don't want them to think they've had burglars. We had better leave something for the coals we've burned." He placed a pound note on the mantel.

Taking Joan in his arms and going first, he led the way down the stairs. When they were out of the hall and the front-door had closed behind them, he left the little group on the steps and went in search of a taxi. After a lengthy expedition he found one and, by promising an excessive fare, induced the driver to accompany him back. He knew neither the name of the square nor the number of the house, so he had to keep his head out of the window and shout directions. On entering the square he searched the pavement ahead, but could catch no sign of his recent companions. He halted the cab against the curb at the point where he thought he had left them; he was made certain that it was the point when he saw the notice TO LET. Perhaps the caretaker had come back and invited them to enter till he returned. He rang the bell and knocked vigorously. The driver was eyeing him with suspicion. When his repeated knockings were unanswered, he got into the taxi and ordered him to move slowly round the square.

She had completely vanished. Either she had picked up a conveyance for herself, while he had been engaged in his search, or else she had lost faith in him and had taken it for granted that he had deserted her. He did not know her name. She had given him no address. Tomorrow night he would be in France. He had neither the time nor the necessary information to hunt for her.

In reply to the driver's request for further instructions, he growled the name of his hotel. Then he spread himself out on the cushions and gave way to disconsolate reflections. The night was full of smoke and heavy with the smell of a bonfire burnt out. Things had become again uninteresting. He told himself that the most wonderful hour of his life was ended.

CHAPTER V

HRISTMAS came and went unmerrily. The old woman who took care of me had known better days; she stayed in bed in an effort to forget. Next door, but one, a son had returned unexpectedly from the trenches. There were laughing, dancing and piano playing. I tried to share their happiness; but happiness isn't the same when it is borrowed second-hand. My rooms were cheerless and empty of all sound.

I kept thinking of my air-raid visitors, wondering where they were and hoping that the American officer had re-found the little lady. If he had, I felt sure he would be good to her. I told myself a foolish fairy-story, as old houses will, of how, when the war was ended, they would drive up to my door together, as if by accident, and exclaim, "Why, it's the little house where we first met!" Then the TO LET sign would be taken down and, having fetched Joan and Robbie, we would all live together forever. With luck and love we might have smaller feet to toddle up and down my stairs.

January, February, March commenced and ended, and the TO LET sign was still there. It seemed that nobody would ever want me. It was April now; to their nests in the railed-in garden of the square the last year's birds were coming back. Trees had become a mist of greenness. Tulips and daffodils were shining above the ground. In the window-boxes of other houses geraniums were making a scarlet flare. Without warning the dream, which had been no more than a dream, began to become a fact.

I had been drowsing in the sun, taking no notice of what was happening, when I was suddenly awakened by a sharp rat-a-tat-tat. I came to myself with a start to find that the little lady, unaccompanied, was standing on my steps.

She knocked again and then a third time. There could be no doubt about her determination to enter. At last the old woman heard her and dragged herself complainingly up from the basement. When the door had been narrowly opened, the little lady pushed it wider and stepped smartly into the hall with an exceedingly business-like air. "I have an order from the agents to view the house."

"I'm 'ard of 'earing. Wot did yer say? Speak louder."

"I have an order from the agents to look over the house."

"Let's see your order?"

While the caretaker fumbled for her spectacles, she went on talking. "You won't like it. There's no real sense in your seeing it. It ain't much of a 'ouse—not modern, too little and all stairs."

It made me furious to hear her running me down and to have no chance to defend myself.

"Nevertheless, I rather like it and I think I'll see it," the little lady said.

She went from room to room, making notes of the accommodations and thinking aloud as she set them down. "Four floors beside the basement. On the top floor two bedrooms; they'll do for Robbie and Joan and nurse. On the next floor one bedroom and a bathroom; I'll have that for myself. On the second floor one big room, running from front to back; that's where we'II have the parrot and the piano, and where I'll do my sewing. On the ground-floor a dining-room in front and a bedroom at the back; the bedroom at the back will do for cook. I won't have anyone sleeping below-stairs. It's a very wee house, but tremendously cosy. And what pretty views—the garden in the square in front, and the old grey church with its graveyard at the back! It's all so green and quiet, like being in the country."

She had far out-distanced the caretaker, hurrying over the first two floors that she might get to the top by herself. Now, as she descended, she inspected each room more leisurely. As yet she had said no word that would indicate that she had recognised me. I wondered