How beautiful she was, with her wistful face and commanding little ways! There was even more than usual of strenuous inquiry in those shining eyes of hers.
"You are going back on the first of May?"
Her speech was more rapid than usual. He saw that she was excited. Probably the remembrance of last night's meeting still held her, he thought.
"Yes, on the first of May. And then——I hardly think it likely I shall ever return to England."
"But why?" she jerked, in her old, quick, want-to-know way.
"Well—you see—I really feel as if I had no right to be here at all. By rights I ought to be lying under a cairn on the beach of Dark Island."
"Oh, but that is simply morbid, and the result of your long illness. You will not feel that way long."
"I hope not. The work is crying to be done. Perhaps, after all, I shall be able to help it more above ground than below."
"Of course you will. Don't you find it dreadfully lonely out there, with none but black people about you?"
"They are very fine people, some of them. And the loneliness only nails one the tighter to the work. Besides there are——"