"Monica, my dear, I've come to see you. Tell me that you don't really love that damn Scotchman."
An adorable smile spread over her face. "You idiot! I don't love anyone. My work fills my life."
"Rot! You said in your letter you had nothing to do at present. Monica, take me somewhere where I can make love to you."
"I shall do nothing of the sort. In the first place you aren't allowed here at all; and in the second I don't want to be made love to."
"And in the third," said Derek grimly, as the sound of a procession advancing down a corridor came from round the corner, "you're being inspected to-day, and that—if I mistake not—is the great pan-jan-drum himself."
"Oh! good Heavens. Derek, I'd forgotten. Do go, for goodness' sake. Run—I shall be sacked."
"I shall not go. As the great man himself rounds that corner I shall kiss you with a loud trumpeting noise.'
"You brute! Oh! what shall I do?—there they are. Come in here." She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into a small deserted sitting-room close by.
"You darling," he remarked and promptly kissed her. "Monica, dear, you must listen——"
"Sit down, you idiot. I'm sure they saw me. You must pretend you're a patient just come in. I know I shall be sacked. The General is dreadfully particular. Put this thermometer in your mouth. Quick, give me your hand—I must take your pulse."