“Yes, do, please, Mr Hallett,” I said; though I flushed a little at being called girlish.
“Come along, then. Our pleasant day has nearly come to an end.”
“Yes,” I said with a sign; “pleasant days do so soon come to an end.”
“To be sure they do,” he cried; “but never mind, my boy; others will come.”
“Yes,” I sighed; “and miserable ones, too, full of Grimstone, and Jem Smith, and pie, and mistakes.”
“Of course,” he cried; “bitters, all of them, to make life the sweeter. Why, Antony—no, Tony’s better—why, Tony, if you could be always revelling in good things, such a day as this would not have seemed so delightful as it has.”
“And it has been delightful!” I cried, as we walked on, my friend resting his hand almost affectionately upon my shoulder.
“Yes,” he said softly; “a day to be marked with a white stone—a tombstone over the grave of one’s brightest hopes,” he added, very, very softly; but I caught the import of his words, and I turned to him quite a troubled look, when there was a sound of cheering some distance away. “Come, Tony,” he said cheerfully, “there are our men hurrahing. We must join them now.”
“Do you know what time we were to start back, sir?” I said.
“Eight o’clock,” he replied, taking out an old-fashioned gold watch, and then starting. “Why, Tony, my lad, it’s past nine. Come along, let’s run.”