“And who will go?” she asked. She was watching me keenly.
“Ah—that does not rest with me.”
“And if it did?”
“I should go myself.”
Her face lighted up suddenly. She had not thought of that. I bore her no ill-feeling, however. I did not expect her to love ME.
“But they cannot spare you,” she was kind enough to say.
“Everybody can always be spared—with alacrity,” I answered; “but it is not a question of that. It is a question of routine. One of the others will have to go.”
“Which one?” she asked with a suddenly assumed indifference.
It was precisely the question in my own mind, but relative to a very different matter. If the decision rested with Miss Matheson, which of these two men would she send to Capoo? Perhaps I looked rather too keenly into her face, for she turned suddenly away and drew the gauzy wrap she had thrown over her evening dress more closely round her throat, for the passages were cold.
“That does not rest with me,” I repeated, and I went on towards the brigadier's quarters, leaving her—a white shadow in the dimly lighted passage.