"So you are not yet tired of Cabul?" she began, after a pause.
"Oh no, far from it," replied Denzil, with a glance which he thought, or wished to be thought, full of tender meaning.
"How odd! I used to think India a fine place, but this Cabul, oh, it is simply horrid! There is neither a piano or harp in the whole city. To be sure there are no Europeans here, save the Queen's troops."
"The climate is temperate in summer," urged Denzil for want of something better to say.
"But nevertheless, the place is unendurable, and I hope papa will soon get a command elsewhere, that we, at least, may leave."
"I trust not."
"Why?"
"Can you really ask me—why?" said Denzil, lowering his voice, while gazing into her laughing eyes, with undisguised tenderness; then he added, "we do not wish to lose you."
"Poor Mr. Devereaux! I think you are very fond of papa; for his Cornish name, perhaps," and as no one was looking, she patted his cheek with her fan.
"I love something more than the mere Cornish name of Trecarrel," said Denzil, tremulously; but Rose only bit the feathers of her fan, and eyed him laughingly over it.