They hurried toward Cornish and White, who were now alone on the path. White had rolled up his sleeve, and was tying his handkerchief round his arm with his other hand and his teeth.
“It is nothing,” he said. “One of the devils had a knife. Must get my sleeve mended to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XXIII. A REINFORCEMENT.
“Prends moy telle que je suy.”
When Major White came down to breakfast at his hotel the next morning, he found the large room deserted and the windows thrown open to the sun and the garden. He was selecting a table, when a step on the verandah made him look up. Standing in the window, framed, as it were, by sunshine and trees, was Marguerite Wade, in a white dress, with demure lips, and the complexion of a wild rose. She was the incarnation of youth—of that spring-time of life of which the sight tugs at the strings of older hearts; for surely that is the only part of life which is really and honestly worth the living.
Marguerite came forward and shook hands gravely. Major White's left eyebrow quivered for a moment in indication of his usual mild surprise at life and its changing surface.
“Feeling pretty—bobbish?” inquired Marguerite, earnestly.
White's eyebrow went right up and his glass fell.