“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” she cried, holding out both hands, “we did not know when we were to expect you.”
“I came down to-day only for an hour. I got my orders this morning, and I’m off to-morrow—sail in the Malabar on Saturday.”
Belle’s nostrils quivered, but for once she restrained herself; she merely said: “How is your mother?”
“Wonderfully well and cheerful; she has found some old friends already, and is beginning to feel at home.”
“And Cuckoo?” with very forced composure.
“Cuckoo goes to school, and, strange to say, likes it. I hope Mrs. Redmond is well.”
“No, she is but poorly to-day. I am afraid she will not be able to come down and wish you good-bye. How we shall miss you,” then “How I shall miss you, for you cannot think—you can never know—what your society has been to me in this hateful, melancholy place! Now it will be ten times more dreary than ever,” and there were tears in her voice.
Silence—an uncomfortable but golden silence. George looked steadily at one particular patch in the carpet; Belle always talked in this exaggerated way; he wished she would not be quite so confoundedly personal.
“Where is Betty?” he enquired in a would-be cheerful tone.
“Oh, out with the dogs—somewhere about the place. Do you want to see her?”