"Not till I whisper to it," he answered. He was losing a little of
his fear of her. She turned to him.

"Shall we go?" she asked.

He stared at her. She was quite serious, that was evident. She was
to put her hand in his and go away with him. It was all settled.
That is why he had come. To her it did not matter where. That was
his affair. But where he went she was to go. That was quite
clearly the programme in her mind.

To his credit, let it be recorded, he did make an effort. Against
all the forces of nature, against his twenty-three years and the red
blood pulsing in his veins, against the fumes of the midsummer
moonlight encompassing him and the voices of the stars, against the
demons of poetry and romance and mystery chanting their witches'
music in his ears, against the marvel and the glory of her as she
stood beside him, clothed in the purple of the night, Flight
Commander Raffleton fought the good fight for common sense.

Young persons who, scantily clad, go to sleep on the heather, five
miles from the nearest human habitation, are to be avoided by
well-brought-up young officers of His Majesty's Aerial Service. The
incidence of their being uncannily beautiful and alluring should
serve as an additional note of warning. The girl had had a row with
her mother and wanted to get away. It was this infernal moonlight
that was chiefly responsible. No wonder dogs bayed at it. He
almost fancied he could hear one now. Nice, respectable,
wholesome-minded things, dogs. No damned sentiment about them.
What if he had kissed her! One is not bound for life to every woman