"Yes, we are back again at the beginning," said Franklin.
Beatrix pushed back her chair and got up and went out. As she stood on the veranda with the sun on her golden head there was not anxiety in her eyes, but triumph. If she really knew Franklin he would not desert her at this new crisis. He would not go to Europe and to South Africa. He would not consider only himself.
He came out almost at once and gave her the telegram. "You may want to keep this," he said, and stood in front of her for orders.
"Thanks,—yes."
They looked eagerly at each other, hoping against hope that there was something in all this, something more than mere accident, something which it was not for them to pry into or understand, that was to bring them as close as only love can bring a man and a woman.
"Well?"
And Franklin echoed her. "Well?"
They mutually wished to God that they were different, of better stuff and more worth while.
"It's for you to speak," she said.
"You were right about the feeling that something was going to happen to-day."