Tom never argued the point, but frequently refreshed his hopes by contemplating a certain photograph and a withered bunch of forget-me-nots, that lay hidden in the recesses of his battered old desk, and said to himself, “She will come right enough.”
Undeniably men are vain creatures.
After this auspicious telegram, Jack was silenced. His friend was magnanimous, and did not say, “I told you so,” but he laboured diligently in the garden, he bought the piano, he took his colonel’s wife into his confidence, and he talked so incessantly of “her”—of “Lily”—that Jack was seriously thinking of dissolving partnership and moving into another bungalow. Of course, when it was noised abroad that Tom Galway—Tom Galway! who did not know “God save the Queen” from the “Dead March” in Saul—had purchased a piano, and that the instrument was actually on view, in his barn-like abode, there was no need for Tom to make any further announcement to his brother officers or the station. It was plain that Tom was going to be married! Naturally he was the legitimate object of any amount of chaff, which chaff he bore with his usual phlegmatic good humour and a broad grin of ridiculous complacency.
He had now received two precious letters from Lily; she announced that she was making arrangements for coming out with some friends immediately, as it was a good opportunity that might not occur again. She had taken her passage in the P. and O. Chusan, and would be in Bombay early in November.
A portion of this was imparted to Jack, but bits were skipped here and there, in a highly suspicious manner.
“I suppose she says nothing of the aunt?” inquired Mr. Murray, sarcastically.
“Not a word. The letters are short”
“Short and sweet, eh? Well, the only drawback that I see is old Miss Browne! She will be worse than a mother-in-law.”
“Not with the seas between us,” retorted Tom emphatically.
“She might come out,” suggested Jack. “By Jove! do you know that I used to think she was rather sweet on you herself, eh?”