“But how quiet and silent and solemn you are; what has happened to you? Has India this effect on people? You look like a death’s head.”
“You must not mind me. I have not yet got over the fever; it takes me some time to shake off. You must be gay enough for both of us,” with a rather dreary smile. “And now tell me, how did you leave them all at home. I mean your mother—and—and—Betty,” turning away so that she could not see his face.
“Mother saw me off herself, although she has been ailing a good deal, latterly; she will miss me very much, but she will have Betty.”
“But not for long,” rather sharply.
“Well, I don’t know; if you mean about Ghosty Moore, of course they like one another, and the Moores are fond of Betty, but nothing is positively settled as yet. I would never have got off without her, never have been ready in time; you really owe her a debt of gratitude, she worked almost day and night, and packed my boxes, and altered my dresses, and thought of every detail down to fans and oranges for the Red Sea. I shall miss her terribly. If there is any hitch about her marrying Ghosty Moore, we must have her out on a visit by and by, what do you think?”
George became very white, and made no reply.
“I know you like her, for you have often said so, and she would not be with us very long. She would be sure to marry, though of late she has completely lost her looks, whether it was from a cold, or fretting at parting with me, or worrying herself about Ghosty, I cannot say, but she is really growing quite plain. Shall we have her out if the match does not come off?”
“No. What puts her into your head just now? You have scarcely arrived in India yourself.”
“‘No,’ George, dear; what are you saying? ‘No,’ to me already?”
“I think married people are best by themselves. You know the saying, ‘Two are company, etc.’”