"Yes, I know. But boys have eyes as well as girls. And I tell you, Polly, I know Denham. That year and a half before he went to Valenciennes he and I were always together. And I got to know him as—well, as nobody else does. Not even you."
She rested her chin on one hand, the soft eyes questioning Roy.
"Go on," she whispered.
"I know Den, and because I know him, I can tell you that he has not altered, and that he won't alter. It isn't in him. It doesn't make a grain of difference whether he talked or didn't talk of you that day. He was too ill; and Den doesn't talk, you know, of the things he cares most about. You ought to understand what he feels about Sir John Moore, for instance, and yet how few would guess it! Does he ever say a great deal about Sir John to people in general? And has he ever changed in that direction? No, nor ever will."
"He has a warm advocate in you."
"Because I know what he is. He didn't talk much of you, Polly, that year and a half that we were together. And I was only a boy, but all the same I understood. If anybody ever spoke your name, didn't I see his look? Just as I always saw the look in his face if anybody spoke of Sir John."
Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.
"Sometimes I used to know that he was thinking of you all day long. How did I know? I can't tell. How does anybody know? It was just as if 'Polly' was writ large upon his face. I never could tell what made him so, only for hours he seemed to be away from us all, and 'twas little good for me to talk, for he heard scarce anything I might say."
Roy's coat-sleeve received a little squeeze. "But—so long ago!"
"What does that matter? You ought to feel sure of him. I'm not making up. Den is one of the best and truest fellows that ever lived, and when he comes home you'll see. You'll see for yourself."