"Oh!"
He looked up from the steaming ruin of newly brewed tea into the violet eyes of the girl who had directed him to the Admiralty. He noticed the purity of her skin, the redness of her lips and the rebelliousness of her corn-coloured hair, which seeming to refuse all constraint clung about her head in little wanton tendrils.
"That's my fault," said John Dene, removing his hat. "I'm sorry."
"Yes; but our tea," said the girl in genuine consternation; "we're rationed, you know."
"Rationed?" said John Dene.
"Yes; we only get two ounces a week each," she said with a comical look of despair.
"Gee!" cried John Dene, then he asked suddenly: "What are you?"
The girl looked at him in surprise, a little stiffly.
"Can you type? Never mind about the tea."
"But I do mind about the tea." She found John Dene's manner disarming.