Mrs. Otway was touched—touched and pleased too. She knew that her friend was baring to her a very secret chamber of his heart.
“It is a beautiful, peaceful outlook,” she said quietly. “I was thinking so not long before you came in—when I was sitting here, reading the strange, dreadful news in to-day’s paper.”
He turned away from the window and looked at her. She saw in the shadow that his face looked grey and strained. “Major Guthrie?” she began, a little shyly.
“Yes?” he said rather quickly. “Yes, Mrs. Otway?”
“I only want to ask if you would like me to write to you regularly with news of Mrs. Guthrie?”
“Will you really? How good of you; I didn’t like to ask you to do that! I know how busy you always are.” But he still lingered, as if loth to go away. Perhaps he was waiting on in the hope that Rose would come in.
“Do you know where you will land in France?” she asked, more to say something than for any real reason, for she knew very little of France.
“I am not sure,” he answered hesitatingly. And then, “Still, I have a very shrewd idea of where they are going to fix the British base. I think it will be Boulogne. But, Mrs. Otway? Perhaps I ought to tell you again that all I’ve told you to-day is private. I may count on your discretion, may I not?” He looked at her a little anxiously.
“Of course I won’t tell any one,” she said quickly. “You really do mean not any one—not even the Dean?”
“Yes,” he said. “I really do mean not any one. In fact I should prefer your not telling even Miss Rose.”