"And Wickie—disappeared. You'll be all alone."
"Yes," he agreed simply.
She bent a little lower. She was smiling as one does at an obstinate, unhappy child.
"In a few weeks I may have to leave Gaya. My time is almost up. Are you flying from me?"
He remained patiently, doggedly silent, and she sighed and drew back.
"Kismet! So you make Fate for us both. I won't try to thwart you. I will take you to Heerut. But I make one stipulation."
"Yes?"
"It is that before I leave Gaya we spend one day together—a kind of farewell picnic—a high and solemn feast to the end of all things. It is to be where and when I want it. Do you promise?"
He did not answer. He was still looking away from her—down the white line of dusty road which wound past the clustered barracks. A far-off, long-drawn-out bugle-call fluttered out on to the hot stillness. She looked down and saw his hand clenched on the splashboard, and the impatient mockery faded from her lips.
"I won't make any stipulation. You are too ill to be bargained with. And, after all, it lies in my power to seek you out when I choose—as I have done before"—her eyes became veiled and intent—"in and out of the ship's ghosts over the water—dancing over the grey roofs of the world——"