"Fortunately," he tried to say, lightly, "it doesn't matter in this case whether I'm sensitive to chills or not."
"Oh, but it does. I want you two to be friends."
"What for?" The question was so point-blank as to be a little scornful, but she ignored that.
"On Colonel Ashley's side, for what he'll gain in knowing you; on yours—for something more."
He stopped again, at the foot of the staircase in the hall. "May I ask—just what you mean by that?"
She hesitated. "It's something that a tactful person wouldn't tell. If I do, it's only because I want you to consider me as—your friend. I know you haven't hitherto," she hurried on, as he flushed and tried to speak. "I haven't deserved it. But after what's happened—and after all you've done for us—"
"I could consider you my friend without asking Colonel Ashley to think of me as his."
"Hardly—if I marry him; and besides—when you know him—You see," she began again, "what I have in mind depends upon your knowing him—rather well."
"Then, Miss Guion," he laughed, "you can drop it. I've sized him up with a look. I've seen others like him—at Gibraltar and Malta and Aden and Hongkong and Cairo, and wherever their old flag floats. They're a fine lot. He's all right for you—all right in his place. Only, the place isn't—mine."
"Still," she persisted, "if I marry him you'd be sometimes in England; and you'd come to visit us, wouldn't you?"