"Miss Horatia has just come in, Sir; she's in the drawing-room."
"Thank you," said Tristram. "By the way, you are going to France with her, Mrs. Kemblet, are you not?"
"Indeed I am, Sir," responded the faithful retainer with emphasis. She had been nurserymaid in the days of Horatia's childhood, had returned to the Rectory on her husband's death, and had successfully compassed the airs of the old family nurse. "My lamb shall have someone English about her in the midst of them jabbering foreigners." Evidently Mrs. Kemblet was not a fervent of the French marriage.
After all, their parting was unimaginably short. Perhaps he would not have had it otherwise.
She was standing in the drawing-room, when he got in, turning up a newly-lit lamp.
"Oh, my dear Tristram," she said, in a tone too matter-of-fact to be natural. "I am afraid that you have been here a long time, waiting. I am so sorry."
"I was in the garden," he answered. "I could well wait..."
"I shall see you in London?" asked Horatia needlessly, turning to the lamp again.
"Yes, without fail. But you will be so occupied then that I must tell you now what I want to say. It is only this ... I want you to remember that if ever, at any time, you need me to ... to do anything for you, I am always ... I shall always..." Firmly as he had begun, he could not finish.
"You do not need to say that to me, Tristram," came her voice, very soft and moved. She still had her back half turned to him; the lamplight glanced through her hair. "I know it ... I am not worthy of it.... You have been a friend more kind..." Then she too stopped, and put her hands over her face.