"But he didn't know you were at the head of the Goorkhas," Averil reminded him.
"Perhaps not," said Derrick. "But he knew I was there. And, putting me out of the question altogether, what can you think of an officer who will coolly leave a party of his men to be slaughtered like sheep in a butcher's yard because the poor beggars happen to have got into a tight place?"
Derrick spoke with strong indignation, and Averil was silent awhile. Presently, however, she spoke again, slowly.
"I can't help thinking, Dick," she said, "that there is an explanation somewhere. We ought not—it would not be fair—to say Colonel Carlyon acted unworthily before he has had a chance of justifying himself."
There was justice in this remark. Derrick, who was lying at the girl's feet on the hearthrug in the Rectory drawing-room, reached up a bony hand and took possession of one of hers. For Averil had received him with a warmer welcome than he had deemed possible in his most sanguine moments, and he was very happy in consequence.
"All right," he said equably. "We'll shunt Carlyon for a bit, and talk about ourselves. Shall we?"
Averil drew the bony hand on to her lap and looked at it critically.
"Poor old boy!" she said. "It is thin."
Derrick drew himself up to a sitting position. There was an air of mastery about him as he raised a determined face to hers.
"Averil," he said suddenly, "you aren't going to send me to the right-about again, are you?"