“She is much better and sends her love, but of course could not come to meet you.”
The anxiety left Rupert’s face.
“Thank God!” he said, with a sigh of relief. “Ah! here’s a porter, now let us see about the luggage.”
“I could not find you anywhere, although you are so big,” said Edith, as having secured a four-wheeled cab they followed the man to one of the vans. “Where did you hide yourself, Rupert? I thought that you were not in the train at all.”
“Nowhere. I stood for nearly five minutes by those second-class carriages.”
“Oh! I never looked there; I did not think—” and she checked herself.
“Hi! that’s one of mine,” exclaimed Rupert, pointing to a battered tin case with Lieutenant R. Ullershaw, R.A., painted on it.
“I remember that box,” said Edith. “I can see it now standing in the hall of your house with the name in beautiful, fresh, white letters. I came to say good-bye to you, but you were out.”
“You are very observant!” he said, looking at her with curiosity. “Well, it has seen some wear since then—like its owner.”
“Yes,” she said demurely; “only the difference is that the wear has much improved you,” and she glanced at the tall, soldier-like form before her with admiration in her eyes.