“We have been back three years,” Horace said.
“Of course we did not know that you were in England. It has been a great grief to us. It seemed so extraordinary that after being saved by you from the most awful of all fates you should have disappeared out of our life as suddenly as you came into it. Of course it was not much to you—you who saved so many hundreds, we heard afterwards thousands of women and girls from slavery; but to us it was everything. And your father, Mr. Beveridge, is he quite well?”
“Yes, he is far better than I have ever known him to be. I am going down next week to help him; he is going to stand for our part of the county for Parliament. There is a vacancy there, and I fancy that he has a very good chance.”
“Is he, indeed? He did not give me the idea of being a man who would have cared for that sort of thing. Of course we only saw him just for those four days.”
“I am happy to say that he has changed very much since then. He came home very ill from Greece, but our eighteen months among the ice entirely set him up and made a new man of him. I am sure he will be very pleased when he hears that I have met you. And did you recognize me at once, Miss Herbert?”
“The name helped me,” the girl said. “When I heard it I felt sure it was you at once. It was very hard work sitting there talking to you as if you were a stranger.”
“Why did you not tell me at once?” Horace asked smiling.
She did not answer, but her mother said for her: “You can’t tell how we felt about you and your father, Mr. Beveridge, or you would not ask the question. The chances are that if Ada had told you who she was she would have burst out crying. She told me it was as much as she could do to restrain herself; and I think we have both had a quiet cry in this corner since we came upstairs. Now, please give me your address in town?”
“I have chambers in Mitre Court Temple, No. 3.”