“Oh, but that’s madness. He must be told that we—that I—he must come home. Why, it’s the most dreadful thing I ever heard of in my life, his bearing it all alone.” Her tears were falling. “Tell me—there’s nothing in the letters—Louis,”—she leaned forward—“you and I always tell each other the truth, don’t we?”
“I’m afraid we do,” he said, with his old look.
“Then tell me what’s in father’s mind. What has he said to you?”
“That he will stay up there till—somehow—he has either made his pile, or made his exit.”
The girl laid her head down beside the shining helmet on the table, and wept convulsively.
“I had to tell you.” Cheviot had come close to her, and his voice was half indignant, half miserable.
Blindly she put out a hand and grasped his arm. “Thank you—you—you have been good. His letter to me says that you—that you—Louis!” Suddenly she lifted her wet face, “I am ‘unendingly grateful.’”
“Well, I hope you’ll get over it.” He drew his arm out of her grasp, and walked about the room.
Hildegarde followed him with tear-wet eyes that grew more and more bewildered. “I can’t understand how you’re here. I thought navigation wouldn’t be open for a month.”
“Nearer two.”