He was at once glad and sorry when the weeks were over. He dreaded, for one thing, going back to London where Nelly might hear news of Godfrey Langrishe. To be sure, he had acted entirely for her happiness, yet he had an idea that Nell might be angry with him for keeping things from her if she found out that Langrishe's regiment was engaged in the deadly frontier war. He had been so used to being perfectly frank with her that his reservation galled him.
He had studied with attentiveness the columns of such papers as had come his way, dreading to find Langrishe's name among the casualties. Hitherto it had not occurred, and for that he was deeply grateful. If there had been news he must have betrayed it to Nelly by his eyes and his voice.
"I wish we could have stayed longer," she said to him on the eve of their departure from Italy.
"And I, Nell."
"Oh," she looked at him in wonder. "I thought you were keen to be gone."
"Is it likely?" he asked with playful tenderness, "that I should be anxious to shorten the time in which you are mine and not Robin Drummond's?"
They were alone, and she turned and put her head on his shoulder.
"I shall always be yours," she said. "And I think marriage and giving in marriage a weariness of the spirit."
"Not really, Nell?" The General looked at her golden head in alarm, but already she was reproaching herself.
"Never mind, dear papa," she said. "I didn't altogether mean it. Poor, kind Robin! What a very ungrateful girl I am to you all!"