“A mere façon de parler,” said Alice to herself; “a kind of Chinese compliment! Forgive anything! A likely thing, when my one fault still remains a huge unerasable blot in his eyes.”
After a moment’s silence she turned towards him with a pretty little shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asked formally. (Oh, why will she not seize this blessed opportunity?)
“No, not actually cold. I believe it’s a goose walking over my grave—you know the tradition,” she answered with a laugh. “Well,” as he remained silent, “if you are not going to say ‘Happy goose,’ like the young man in Punch, perhaps you will be so kind as to bring me my red shawl; it’s on one of the chairs in the hall.”
So much for his hints and hopes.
Wrapped in the shawl, as a preventive against further shivering, Alice and her husband promenade up and down the terrace for nearly an hour, although it seemed to them no longer than a quarter of the time, talking of India chiefly. He told her about his regiment, his friends, his horses and dogs, his native servants, delighted to share his thoughts and experiences with her who was, in spite of everything, dearer to him than life itself. The interest she manifested made him talk of himself more freely than he had done for years, and then with her alone. To her eager questions about the African campaign—his glories, his decorations, and his wounds—his answers were but brief and unsatisfactory; but he dwelt on the successes of his comrades-in-arms with generous and eloquent enthusiasm. And Alice, glad that he should talk to her as of old, on any subject, and hardly able to realise the present brief happy moment, lent a greedy ear to whatever narrative he was pleased to relate.
So absorbed were they that the other couple arrived at the foot of the steps unnoticed.
“Rex,” cried Geoffrey, “is she cool? Is it safe for me to come up?”
“Quite safe. She accords you a free pardon.”
“Reginald!” she exclaimed, “how can you say so?”