Meanwhile, the occupants of the summer-house in Brixton were passing the time in lover-like reminiscences.
"Do you remember the first time we met, Amy?" said Reginald Morris, as he fondly stroked her hand.
"We met, 'twas in a crowd, upon the mighty ocean, on board the steamship Ormuz," answered Amy, in mock-tragedy. "Yes, I remember it well," she added, with a happy little sigh.
"I can remember every incident of the voyage, though it's three years ago. I thought it was going to be a disagreeable voyage for me, and I was seriously thinking of landing at Adelaide, when I made the acquaintance of your dear old dad, and that changed the whole purpose of my life. I can see him now as he came up to me with his frank smile and said in his cheery voice: 'My name is Oliver Whyte, sir.' My heart went out to him after his hearty greeting, and we soon became fast friends. Then he introduced me to his dear old wife, and a pert little kid—"
"Take that for your impertinence," interrupted Amy, boxing his ears lightly.
"I mean a smart young lady. I can see her now, and she captured my heart on the spot and, try how I will, I cannot get it back."
"Well it was a fair exchange, for you took mine in return," she answered, with a blush.
"Six months from to-day, Amy?"
"Yes, Reg. Six months before I have to give up all my pleasures, sacrifice all my pets and put myself at the mercy of a tyrant."
Reg stooped to kiss the lips again that chaffed him so prettily, when the doorway was darkened by the figure of Oliver Whyte, who said in an amused tone of enquiry: