She turned away and sat down at her writing-desk, leaving Hector standing looking at her, with a baffled expression on his face. For a moment he remained irresolute, then walked slowly away to order the pony, and presently returned to Lucy.
"Here's the letter, Hector," handing it to him. "You'd better go to the Military Offices, you'll find him there now; and I wonder, would you mind getting me some ribbons at Lace's when you pass?"
"Yes, I'll do that for you gladly, Lucy, but not the other."
Lucy looked at him, and then suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
"Very well, Hector. It's only a little thing I ask of you, but of course if you won't; and I understand, you—you'd rather your friend didn't see me like this. I—I know I'm dull and plain, but—but——"
"Give me the note, Lucy," said Hector quietly. "I'll take it, and enter the Military Offices for the first time since I've been here." He went out, and, mounting the pony, departed on his mission.
* * * * *
As Lucy had said, there was a break in the rains, and for a while the dense canopy of cloud burst asunder, and lay in sullen banked-up masses girdling the horizon. A blue sky glared overhead, from which shone a bright sun, its rays burning down on dripping tree and sodden ground, forcing from the latter a thick steam, odorous of damp earth, reeking fern, and rotting leaves.
The sound of running water filled the air, from the faint murmur of tiny rills, threading their way through emerald moss and tangled undergrowth, to the roar of swollen torrents thundering down the hillside on their way to parent streams below, faint gleams of silver appearing at intervals through the luxuriant vegetation clothing the valley depths. Beyond gleamed the mountains, no longer parched and bare as three weeks before, but clad in velvet green, veined with silver threads glittering in the sunlight, as they too danced on their way to the river below.
Graeme noticed none of these things, for the depression of the morning had now deepened to heavy gloom, and with it had come a sense of foreboding, the feeling of being driven on by destiny, which, struggle as he might, he was powerless to resist.