Dorothea was still studying Dolly: and her next words were unexpected—
"I don't think you ought to have come to the station to meet me. You are tired—or something—are you not?"
"Tiredness doesn't matter," said Dolly, with a short laugh.
"What makes you so?"
"Nothing particular,—at least, nothing that can be helped. Please don't say a word about it at home."
Dolly glanced up as she spoke, and the pitying tenderness of Dorothea's look almost upset her self-command. Dorothea could see the muscles in her throat working painfully.
"No, of course I will not. But I know so well that feeling of wanting to cry about nothing when one is overdone."
"Thank you," murmured Dolly, glad of any respectable excuse to let two or three tears drop. "Only, it is awfully stupid," she added, trying to smile. "One has no business to be so ridiculous. You will be sure not to tell."
The short and steep cut from Craye to Woodlands was supposed to take not more than fifteen minutes up, and ten minutes down of quick walking. The two Colonels, however, managed to spend an hour on the road. Tea was cold before they appeared. Colonel Tracy had by that time parted with the last remnants of embarrassment. Dorothea had never in her life seen him so much at his ease, or so full of talk.
The old comrades were inseparable all that evening. They fought old battles over again, lived old days over again, told old regimental stories over again, discussed the histories of brother veterans over again,—only about the long quarrel, now happily ended, a discreet silence was kept. If anything had had to be said on that subject, it was doubtless said in the tête-à-tête walk.