"And that has made you give more time to things that are worth doing—partly because you haven't cared. But, dear, you have cared, and you do care. Do you think I have not seen the fight going on?"
"Margot, you are such a comfort!" said Dolly, sighing.
If Dolly Erskine looked forward to the twelfth of February with doubtful sensations, Dorothea Tracy's expectations were of unmixed delight.
For a while it had seemed very uncertain whether the visit to Craye was a thing to be or not to be. Colonel Erskine's invitation was pressed cordially, but Colonel Tracy held back. A trickling correspondence went on for three weeks, before the one veteran gave in to the other. Colonel Tracy at length yielded, partly to his old friend's desire, partly to his daughter's insistence, and consented to name the twelfth of February. Thereafter he was hold to his word.
The twelfth of February came—a mild grey day, more like autumn than winter. Dolly had hoped and longed-for a frost which might mean skating at the Park, but no frost rewarded her expectations. The roads were muddy; the air was saturated with moisture.
At four o'clock the train, fifteen minutes overdue, drew up at the small platform, where two elderly porters loitered about. Colonel Erskine stood talking to the station-master, with Dolly by his side. He would have no one but his Dolly to welcome the other Dorothea.
A red face came out of one carriage window, and a voice called—
"Hi! Is this Craye?"
"Yes, yes. All right!" Colonel Erskine moved swiftly forward, beckoning to a porter. "See to this gentleman's luggage," he said.
Colonel Tracy jumped out, and the hands of the long-separated comrades met in a hasty clasp—stirred and warm on the one side, shy and uncomfortable on the other. "Welcome—" Colonel Erskine tried to say, and it was as much as he could do to bring the word out. His voice was husky, and something like a tear shone in each eye, while Colonel Tracy's face was at its reddest, and he had not an idea at command.