Frances knew that her face was a picture of the worriment and straining of her past night, for it was a treacherous mirror of her soul. She smiled as she made a little pause in the reception-room door. Major King bowed, with formal, almost official, dignity. His hand was in the bosom of his coat, and he drew it forth with something white in it as she approached.
“I’m dreadfully indolent to belong to a soldiering 62 family, Major King,” she said, offering her hand in greeting.
“Permit me,” said he, placing the folded white thing in her outstretched fingers.
“What is it? Not—it isn’t—” she stammered, something deeper than surprise, than foreboding, in her eyes and colorless cheeks.
“Unmistakably yours,” he said; “your name is stamped in it.”
“It must be,” she owned, her spirits sinking low, her breath weak between her lips. “Thank you, Major King.”
The glove was soiled with earth-marks; it was wrinkled and drawn, as if it had come back to her through conflict and tragedy. She rolled it deliberately, in a compact little wad, her fingers as cold as her hope for the life of the man who had borne it away. She knew that Major King was waiting for a word; she was conscious of his stern eyes upon her face. But she did not speak. As far as Major King’s part in it went, the matter was at an end.
“Miss Landcraft, I am waiting.”
Major King spoke with imperious suggestion. She started, and looked toward him quickly, a question in her eyes.
“I sha’n’t keep you then,” she returned, her words little more than a whisper.