"It's my writing!" she cried.
"It's the foolish, dear letter you wrote to me."
She took it, to recall the dreary day at Mrs Bilkins's on which she had penned the lines to Windebank, in which she had refused to hamper his career by acceding to his request.
"Give it back," he demanded.
"You don't want it?"
"Don't I! A girl who can write a letter like that to a chap isn't easily forgotten, I can tell you."
Mavis did not reply. Windebank, seeing how she was embarrassed, told her of his more recent doings; how, after getting Perigal's letter, he had set out for England as soon as he could start; how he had saved three days by taking the overland route from Brindisi (such was his anxiety to see his little Mavis, who had never been wholly out of his thoughts), to arrive home before he was expected.
"I had an early feed and came out hoping to see you," he concluded.
Mavis did not speak. She was deliberating if she should tell Windebank of her approaching marriage; if he cared seriously for her, it was only fair that he should know her affections were bestowed.
"Aren't you glad to see me?" he asked.