There was no time to hang about the tobacconist’s shop in Bombardier Lane, waiting furtively for a chance of seeing Mariquita alone.  They kept their eye upon her, too; and when at last he tore himself away from his new and absorbing duties he paid two or three visits to the place before he could speak to her.

Mariquita received him coldly—­distantly.

They were standing, as usual, on each side of the low fence at the end of the garden.

“What’s wrong, little star?  How have I offended you?”

“I wonder that you trouble to come here at all, Don Stanislas.  It’s more than a week since I you.”

“I have been so busy.  My new duties:  they have made me, you know—­”

“Throw that bone to some other dog,” interrupted Mariquita, abruptly.  “I am to be no longer deceived by your pretended duties.  I know the truth:  you prefer some other girl.”

“Mariquita!” protested McKay.

“I have heard all.  Do not try to deny it.  She is tall and fair; one of your compatriots.  You were seen together.”

“Where, pray?  Who has told you this nonsense?”

“At Waterport.  Benito saw you.”

McKay laughed merrily.

“I see it all.  Why, you foolish, jealous Mariquita, that was my general’s wife—­a great lady.  I was attending and following her about like a lackey.  I would not dare to lift my eyes to her even if I wished, which is certainly not the case.”

Mariquita was beginning to relent.  Her big eyes filled with tear, and she said in a broken voice, as though this quarrel with her lover had pained her greatly—­

“Oh, oily-tongued! if only I could believe you!”

“Why, of course it’s true.  Surely you would not let that villain Benito make mischief between us?  But, there; time is too precious to waste in silly squabbles.  I can’t stay long; I can’t tell when I shall come again.”

“Is your love beginning to cool, Stanislas?  If so, we had better part before—­”

“Listen, dearest,” interrupted McKay; “I have good news for you,” and he told her of his unexpected promotion, and of the excellent prospects it held forth.

“I am nearly certain to win a commission before very long.  Now that we are going to the war—­”

“The war!” Mariquita’s face turned ghastly white; she put her hand upon her heart, and was on the point of falling to the ground when McKay vaulted lightly over the fence and saved her by putting his arm round her waist.

“Idiot that I was to blurt it out like that, after thinking all the week how best to break the news!  Mariquita!  Mariquita! speak to me, I implore you!”

But the poor child was too much overcome to reply, and he led her, dazed and half-fainting, to a little seat near the house, where, with soft caresses and endearing words, he sought to restore her to herself.

“The war!” she said, at length.  “It has come, then, the terrible news that I have so dreaded.  We are to part, and I shall never, never see you again.”