"DEAR MR. ARMSTRONG,--Do tear yourself away from grimy London and come and spend the Christmas holidays with us. Only a small party and one of War-workers. We are all workers nowadays, aren't we? You _must_ come! Sincerely yours, AUGUSTA POGSON-DELABERE. N.B.--Our house is a long way from the Crematorium! This settled it; he decided to go. PART II. The Pogson-Delaberes' party at "Ton Repos" consisted of four guests: Col. Maxton, from Aldershot, commanding the 106th Battalion of the Drumlie Highlanders; Miss Agatha Simson, a middle-aged munition-worker; our hero, and, oh! the lovely Miss Sylvia Taunton, another War-worker, aged 22. The result may be easily guessed. For two days the young people were left, naturally, very much together. They quickly fell into an easy intimacy, and on the third and last day of the holiday Angelo was profoundly in love. Gone were the botanizers, gone the bibliomants, gone the Deputy Harbour Masters. There was but one thought in his evacuated brain, to make the fair Sylvia his own. His opportunity came after dinner that night when the rest of the party had gone out to look at some condemned pheasants which were to be shot at dawn. She was at the piano playing that deservedly popular song, "I've chipped my chip for England," by Nathaniel Dayer, when he suddenly leant over her. "Miss Taunton--Sylvia," he ejaculated, "you will be surprised at this suddenness, I know, but I cannot keep it in any longer; I love you enormously. Is there any chance for me?" She had just reached that passage in Nathaniel's song where a triumphant ascending scale in G rings out. She faltered and played D-flat instead of D-natural, the first dissonance that night--would it had been the last! Quickly she turned on the music-stool and on him, and spoke with averted head. "Mr. Armstrong, I will own frankly that I like you more than a little. Though we only met three days ago I am more drawn to you than I have ever been to any other man." "Aha," he cried exultingly. "But," she said, "I must say something about myself. While I am a War-worker, I have never told you yet what I am doing. I am a clerk in Marr's Bank, in Cheapside." "There is nothing dishonourable in that," he almost shouted. "There is not," she answered, haughtily drawing herself up. "I keep my account there," he said. "I know," she replied; "I am in the Pass-book department." He stood quite still, but the lapels of his dinner-jacket shook slightly. "My duties," she went on quietly, "are to report each evening to my chief, Mr. Hassets, on our clients' balances. Yours has never been higher than L24 7_s._ 9_d._ during the eighteen months that I have been there. I am very sorry, but I cannot marry you." He looked straight into her inscrutable eyes and the right repartee froze on his lips. On the morrow he left at dawn, just as the birds were beginning to drop; and before the day was over he had transferred his account from Marr's Bank to Parr's.