regarded her guest
afresh.

"You are saucy," she murmured with a faint smile. Mr. Spokesly smiled
more broadly. He was saucy, but he was certainly at home now with his
companion. There was in her last speech, in the accent and inflection,
something incommunicably indigenous, something no alien ever has or ever
will compass.

"No need to ask what part of England you come from," he ventured.

"No?" she queried. "There seems nothing you don't know."

"Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Dainopoulos, that ain't fair. I can't sit here and
twiddle my thumbs all the evening, can I? _That_ wouldn't be giving you
any pleasure as far as I'm aware. The boss didn't reckon I was going to
play a mandolin or sing, did he?"

"Well, since you're so clever, what's the answer?"

"Not so very many miles from Charing Cross," he hazarded.

"Wonderful!" she said, laying her head back and smiling. Mr. Spokesly
admired the pretty throat. "You ought to be in the secret service.
Perhaps you are," she added.

"Of course," he agreed. "They've sent me out to see where all the nice
London girls have got to. But am I right?"

She nodded.

"Haverstock Hill," she said quietly.

"No! Do you know Mafeking Road? When I was a kid we lived at
sixty-eight."

"Yes, I know it. Don't you live round there now?"

"No, not now. We live down Twickenham way now."

And Mr. Spokesly began to tell his own recent history, touching lightly
upon the pathos of Eastern exile, the journey home to join up, and his
conviction that after all he would be a fool to go soldiering while the
ships had to be kept running. And he added as a kind of immaterial
postscript:

"And then, o' course, while I was at home I got engaged."

Mrs. Dainopoulos stared at him and broke into a brief titter behind a
handkerchief.

"_That's_ a nice way to give out the information," she remarked.
"Anybody'd think getting engaged was like buying a railway ticket or
sending a postal order. Is she nice?"

"Well," said Mr. Spokesly, "_I_ think so."

"Very enthusiastic!" commented the lady with considerable spirit. "Dark
or fair?"

"Well," he repeated, "I should say dark myself."

"You don't intend to take any chances," Mrs. Dainopoulos retorted.
"Haven't you a photo to show me?"

Mr. Spokesly felt his pockets, took out a wallet containing a number of
unconvincing documents, some postage stamps and a five-piaster note.

"Matter of fact," he said, "I don't seem to have one with me. I got one
on