“Thank you, awfully,” observed the said plaything with a considerable amount of warmth in his voice. “I—perhaps I shall not see you again.”
“I was just thinking—what time does your leave commence to-morrow?”
“At ten-thirty”—hopefully.
“I might pick you up then and take you to the trolley.”
“Honestly, would you?” he asked delightedly. “You know, I—really, I can’t tell you how grateful I would be.”
“I love to make the taxi men wriggle,” was her rather unsatisfactory reply. “I’ll be here, then. Good night.”
Sergeant Gray saluted and went away. To all appearances he was a rather overgrown young man trudging through the mud of a not too-tidy camp to a barracks that needed carbolising. Actually he was a sublimated being favoured of heaven and floating in a rosy cloud of dreams.
“Halt!” said a guard, and threw his rifle to port arms. “Who’s there?”
“Sergeant of the Headquarters Troop,” said the superman.
“Where’s your pass?”