As he read and re-read her letter in that hot, burning, and far-away land, how vividly every expression of her perfect face, every inflection of her soft and sympathetic voice, came back to memory, till his heart swelled and his eyes grew dim. How self-possessed she was, with all her gentleness; how self-reliant, with all her timidity.
'Should I show this letter to Hammersley?' thought Florian. 'The communication in it must concern him very closely—very dearly, and my darling, impulsive little Dulcie has evidently written it with a purpose.'
Then Florian remembered that though suave and condescendingly kind to him, especially since the episode at Ginghilovo, Hammersley was naturally a man of a proud and haughty spirit, and might resent one in Florian's junior position interfering in the most tender secrets of his life.
Florian was keenly desirous of fulfilling what was evidently the wish of Dulcie—of befriending her friend, and perhaps, by achieving a reconciliation, conferring an unexampled favour upon his officer; yet he shrank from the delicate task, while giving it long and anxious thought.
He tossed up a florin.
'If it is a head, I'll do it. Head it is!' he exclaimed, and went straight to the tent of Hammersley, whom he found lounging on his camp-bed, with a cigar in his mouth and his patrol-jacket open.
'What is up?' he demanded abruptly, as if disturbed in a reverie.
'Only, sir, that I have just had a letter,' began Florian, colouring deeply, and pausing.
'From home?'
'Yes, sir.'