“Yes; it’s a wonderfully interesting country. My brother-in-law was in the Punjaub for years. I hope Lance will get some staff appointment; he is working hard, and in some ways foreign service has its advantages—at home, there are so many distractions—and temptations.”
“Temptations!” echoed Letty with a blank face.
“Yes, my dear, in the shape of pretty faces, and the danger of falling in love. But Lancelot is poor; he has only himself to rely on—he cannot afford to think of love—much less marriage. You see he is but twenty-three, and a subaltern; so it is best for him, as I say, to go to India—and”—suddenly dropping her voice—“forget.”
To this long speech there was no reply; the slender figure sitting with her back to the window never moved.
Stirred by some rash impulse the kind woman added:
“I believe he was growing fond of you, Letty.” The girl caught her breath. “But it would never, never do, and the less he sees and thinks of you the better. Poor fellow!” and she heaved a long sigh.
And what of poor Letty?
She struggled desperately to restrain her tears, to swallow an enormous lump in her throat, and to steady and clench her trembling hands; fortunately the light was growing dim and she wore a shady hat. At last she said in a clear, rather sharp key:
“Of course, Mrs. Denton, you know best;” and now came a great big lie: “Mr. Lumley and I were only friends—he never thought of me in—in—the way you mean.”
“I’m truly thankful to hear you say so, my dear,” replied the lady, who was intensely relieved. “Now, will you give me another cup of tea, and let us talk of something else?”