“Weren’t you out seeing the patrol go off to-night?” I ventured.
“No!” she said in an abrupt kind of way, and I remembered then that I had not seen her in the crowd. She had of course said good-bye to her husband at home.
“I hardly know any of the men here,” she presently continued, “except Major Kinsella, and he came in during the afternoon to say good-bye. I thought it particularly nice of him to remember me—but then he is always kind.”
“It is about Major Kinsella that all the trouble is,” I said in a low voice. I thought I had better tell her the real story instead of letting her hear an embroidered version from some one else. She was silent.
“Anthony Kinsella and I love each other,” I said. “Before he rode away I kissed him good-bye before every one,”—I could not go on. The thought of that wonderful moment, and then, the sadness and bitterness of losing my lover overwhelmed me; my voice trembled and broke. A thin nervous hand grasped mine and held it tightly under the rugs. Yet her voice sounded doubtful when she spoke.
“He is a splendid fellow—any girl would be proud and happy to get him; but isn’t he—? I seem to have heard somewhere that he is—”
“Oh, don’t!” I cried. “Don’t! I’m sick of hearing it. That is what they all say. That is my offence against the manners and morals of this place—kissing a married man—” My hand was suddenly loosed and I could feel her draw away from me in the darkness. “But I don’t believe it for one moment!” I cried almost violently. “And I refuse to let these odious people poison my heart with their lies. I know he is a free man. He is incapable of lying.”
“Oh!” she said quickly and warmly, “if he told you he is free it is surely true. I do not believe either that he would lie.” She took my hand again and squeezed it.
“He did not tell me in words,” I said. “But his eyes could not lie to me. Oh, Mrs Marriott, he has such brave true eyes—”
“I know—” she began, and then fell silent again.