She took it.
“It is from Mr. Churchill,” she said; “I know the writing.”
He nodded, and she read the letter, and as she read her face grew pale.
“To Australia?” she said, in a low voice; “and you are going?”
“Yes,” he said. “And now the question I am going to ask you, Doris, is—am I to go alone?”
“Are you to go alone?” she repeated, as if she did not understand him; then, reading his meaning in his eyes, she shrank back a little, and her face grew crimson, and then white. “You mean that—that——”
“That you should come with me,” he said, in a grave voice.
“But—but——” she glanced at the letter again, “he says that you must start in a fortnight!”
“We could be married in less than that, Doris,” he said, gently.
She clasped her hands tightly, as they rested on the bridge.