"I—I have never had many friends," she stammered, "and I am not used to writing letters. You will be disappointed with mine—and perhaps ashamed of me."
"What rubbish! Do you think I shall be critical about the grammar and composition? Why, my pet, if you don't spell a single word right I shan't care—so long as you tell me you think of me, and miss me, and want to come back to me."
"Oh," said Rachel bridling, "I know how to spell."
Here a railway official shouldered them apart in order to lock the door, and Mr. Kingston demanded of him what he meant by his impudence. Having satisfied the claims of outraged dignity, he again leaned into the window, and put out his hand for a tender farewell.
"Good-bye, my darling. You will write often, won't you? And mind now," with one of his Mephistophelian smiles, "you are not to go and flirt with anybody behind my back."
"I never flirt," said Rachel severely.
"Nor fall in love with handsome young squatters, you know."
"Don't talk nonsense," she retorted, melting into one of her sunny smiles. "If you can't trust me, why do you let me go?"
"I would not, if I had the power to stop you—you may be quite sure of that. But you will promise me, Rachel?"
"Promise you what?"