“I do.”
The major uttered a sigh of relief, and smoothing his beard, and with his eyes beaming, he walked straight into the drawing-room, where Glynne was seated, looking very pale and beautiful, with her head resting upon her soft white hand, gazing full at the lamp. Marjorie and three lady friends were in the drawing-room, but they had evidently, out of respect for the young girl’s saddened state, retired to the end of the room, where they were engaged in conversation in a low tone of voice.
Glynne did not stir as the major entered, for she was deep in thought; but she turned to him with a sweet, grave smile as he laid his hand upon hers.
“Will you come into the conservatory, my dear?” he said gently. “I want to talk to you.”
She rose without a word, and laid her hand upon his arm, letting her uncle lead her into the great, softly-lit corridor of flowers; while, as the major realised the difficulties of the task he had before him, he grew silent, so that they had walked nearly to the end before he spoke.
“My dear child,” he said, in a husky, hesitating voice, for, though he had often dashed with his men at the charge full into the dangers of the battlefield, he felt a peculiar sensation of nervous dread now at having to broach the business upon which he had come.
“My dear child,” he began again.
“My dear uncle,” she answered, tenderly.
“You know my feelings respecting your approaching marriage?”
She looked up at him sadly, and the tears stood in her eyes.