He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. He was all alone, like herself. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Easy enough to look as if one rides away. ” “Bring me a whisky and soda, and a box of cigarettes,” Ennison answered, “and then leave me alone, there’s a good fellow.
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