“From here to Belfort,” he was saying in his musing, agreeable voice, “and from Belfort to Paris; and from Paris to London, and from London to Strathlone Head, and from Strathlone Head to Glenark Cliffs, and from Glenark Cliffs to Isla Water, and from Isla Water—­to our home!  Our home, Yellow-hair,” he repeated.  “What do you think of that?”

“I think you have forgotten the parson’s house on the way.  You are immoral, Kay.”

“Can’t a Yank sky-pilot in Paris—­”

“Darling, I must have some clothing!”

“Can’t you get things in Paris?”

“Yes, if you’ll wait and not become impatient for Isla.  And I warn you, Kay, I simply won’t marry you until I have some decent gowns and underwear.”

“You don’t care for me as much as I do for you,” he murmured in lazy happiness.

“I care for you more.  I’ve cared for you longer, too.”

“How long, Yellow-hair?”

“Ever—­ever since your head lay on my knees in my car a year ago last winter!  You know it, too,” she added.  “You are a spoiled young man.  I shall not tell you again how much I care for you!”

“Say ‘love’,’ Yellow-hair,” he coaxed.

“No!”

“Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then won’t you say it?”

She laughed contentedly.  Then her warm head moved a little on his shoulder; he looked down; lightly their lips joined.

“Kay—­my dear—­dear Kay,” she whispered.

“There’s somebody opening the garden door,” she said under her breath, and sat bolt upright.

McKay also sat up on his steamer chair.

“Oh!” he cried gaily, “hello, Recklow!  Where on earth have you been for three days?”

Recklow came into the rose arbour.  The blossoms were gone from the vines but it was a fragrant, golden place into which the September sun filtered.  He lifted Miss Erith’s hand and kissed it gravely.  “How are you?” he inquired.

“Perfectly well, and ready for Paris!” she said smilingly.

Recklow shook hands with McKay.

“You’ll want a furlough, too,” he remarked.  “I’ll fix it.  How do you feel, McKay?”

“All right.  Has anything come out of our report on the Great Secret?”

Recklow seated himself and they listened in strained silence to his careful report.  Once Evelyn caught her breath and Recklow paused and turned to look at her.

“There were thousands and thousands of insane down there under the earth,” she said pitifully.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Did—­did they all die?”

“Are the insane not better dead, Miss Erith?” he asked calmly....  And continued his recital.

That evening there was a full moon over the garden.  Recklow lingered with them after dinner for a while, discussing the beginning of the end of all things Hunnish.  For Foch was striking at last; Pershing was moving; Haig, Gouraud, Petain, all were marching toward the field of Armageddon.  They conversed for a while, the men smoking.  Then Recklow went away across the dewy grass, followed by two frisky and factious cats.