They returned at length to their little gimcrack bungalow--the
Match-box, as Puck called it--on foot under a blaze of stars. The
distance was not great, and Puck despised rickshaws.

She flitted by his side in her airy way, chatting inconsequently, not
troubling about response, as elusive as a fairy and--the man felt it in
the rising fever of his veins--as maddeningly attractive.

They reached the bungalow. She went up the steps to the rose-twined
veranda as though she floated on wings of gossamer. "The roses are all
asleep, Billikins," she said. "They look like alabaster, don't they?"

She caught a cluster to her and held it against her cheek for a moment.

Merryon was close behind her. She seemed to realize his nearness quite
suddenly, for she let the flowers go abruptly and flitted on.

He followed her till, at the farther end of the veranda, she turned and
faced him. "Good-night, Billikins," she said, lightly.

"What about that dancing-lesson?" he said.

She threw up her arms above her head with a curious gesture. They
gleamed transparently white in the starlight. Her eyes shone like
fire-flies.

"I thought you preferred dancing by yourself," she retorted.

"Why?" he said.