girl folded her serviette and walked to the window, and stood
looking out over the yellow stretch of the deserted parade-ground.

"I'm going to call on Bones," she said suddenly.

"Poor Bones!" murmured Sanders.

"That's very rude!" She took down her solar helmet from the peg behind
the door and adjusted it carefully. Then she stepped through the open
door, whistling cheerfully.

"I hope you don't mind, sir," apologized Hamilton, "but we've never
succeeded in stopping her habit of whistling."

Sanders laughed.

"It would be strange if she didn't whistle," he said cryptically.

Bones was lying on his back, his hands behind his head. A half-emptied
tin of biscuits, no less than the remnants of a box of chocolates,
indicated that anchorite as he was determined to be, his austerity did
not run in the direction of starvation.

His mind was greatly occupied by a cinematograph procession of
melancholy pictures. Perhaps he would go away, far, far, into the
interior. Even into the territory of the great king where a man's life
is worth about five cents net. And as day by day passed and no news came
of him--as how could it when his habitation was marked by a cairn of
stones?--she would grow anxious and unhappy. And presently messengers
would come bringing her a few poor trinkets he had bequeathed to her--a
wrist-watch, a broken sword, a silver cigarette-case dented with the
arrow that slew him--and she would weep silently in the loneliness of
her room.

And perhaps he would find strength to send a few scrawled words asking
for her pardon, and the tears would well up in her beautiful grey
eyes--as they were already welling in Bones's eyes at the picture he
drew--and she would know--all.

"Phweet!"

Or else, maybe he would be stricken down with fever, and she would want
to come and nurse him, but he would refuse.

"Tell her," he would say weakly, but oh, so bravely, "tell her ... I ask
only ... her pardon."

"Phweet!"

Bones heard the second whistle. It came from the open window immediately
above his head. A song bird was a rare visitor to these parts, but he
was too lazy and too absorbed to look up.

Perhaps (he resumed) she would never see him again, never know the deep
sense of injustice....

"Phwee--et!"

It was clearer and more emphatic, and he half turned his head to
look----

He was on his feet in a second, his hand raised to his damp forehead,
for leaning on the window sill, her lips pursed for yet