Colonel Buchanan himself entered with zest into the maddest innovations which Desmond or Olliver could devise; and those who knew Paul Wyndham, in his normal habit as he lived, would scarce have recognised him masquerading as Desmond's polo pony, in a inter-regimental match played with billiard balls, brother officers doing duty for mounts and cues for polo-sticks. It was all excellent fooling; and the bar of grey in the east came far too soon. Close on five o'clock Desmond re-entered the bungalow; his scarlet kummerbund disordered; his white mess-jacket in a hundred creases; yet alert and ready in every fibre for the day's march that lay before him. The grey twilight of dawn was already creeping in through the skylights and long glass doors, as he passed through the drawing-room into his study. Here he came to a standstill with a low exclamation of surprise. On his cane deck-lounge Evelyn lay fast asleep, her face so turned upon the cushion that its delicate profile showed clear as a cameo against a background of dull blue. Her white dinner dress gleamed ghostly in the dusk of morning. One bronze slipper had fallen off; and one bare arm hung limply over the chair's edge, the fingers curled softly upwards. A slender chain bangle, with a turquoise pendant, had almost slipped over her hand. Desmond drew nearer with softened tread, and stood looking down upon her, a world of tenderness in his eyes;--tenderness touched with the reverence a finely tempered man is apt to feel in the presence of a child or woman asleep. For by some mysterious process sleep sanctifies a face; perhaps because it is half brother to death. Evelyn's face was white as her dress, save for the coral tint of her lips. Their downward droop, the red line along her eyelids, and the moist handkerchief clutched in her right hand, were more heart-stirring than tears. He knelt down beside her and lightly caressed her hair. "Ladybird," he said softly, "time to wake up." His touch brought her back to life with an indrawn breath like a sob; and at sight of him her arms went round his neck. "Theo, darling," she whispered, drawing his head down close to hers. "I--was dreaming--that you were gone. I suppose you are going very soon now?" "Yes; in about an hour." She held him closer. "I was bad and selfish to you last night, Theo. I didn't mean to be; but--I was. Honor made me understand." "Bless her brave heart!" he said fervently. "She comes of the best stock I know. By the way, I am sure she never told you to spend the night here." "No. She thought I had gone to bed. But I was too unhappy to trouble about that--and----" "You thought I might turn up before morning,--wasn't that it?" "Y--yes." She flushed softly on the confession. "Poor dear little soul!" He drew her to her feet, slipped on the fallen shoe, and put his arm round her. "Come along to the dressing-room and help me to get into my khaki."