Margaret told John nothing of this. If Mrs. Lynwood did not see fit to mention to her son that she had known Wingfield Alter long enough and intimately enough to call him “Wing,” she had probably good reasons for concealing the fact.
“I must think over all this,” John said. “I want to tell Hartington about it. Hartington is the Sub.”
“The Sub?” she said in surprise. “Does the Sub listen kindly to poetry?”
“Yes, thank Heaven. You must meet him soon.... And I’ll try to write to-night, Margaret.”
“No; don’t try.”
“But I want to write now. I am so suddenly happy. I have been longing and longing to see you. And when you come you bring this wonderful news.”
Near at hand the gulls were crying, and sampan men crooning to themselves as they rocked their bodies over their stern oars.
“Come and tell me about England,” he said; “the Thames, the bridges, the lights, the trains; and pictures and music, and books and plays, and carpets and rugs; and little narrow country lanes, and hills, and being free, and——”
“But I can’t tell you everything at once!”
“Oh, splendid!” he exclaimed. “I guessed you would say that. I have guessed it every night for weeks and weeks. ‘But I can’t tell you everything at once!’ Now it’s coming true. You see,” he explained, “I have been looking forward to this.”