He, alone in London, asked of himself the same question: “Is she in love—and has she told her?” If he had known that Aunt Elsie lay awake, as he lay awake, wondering, he would have been happier.
In a Government House far, far away, two people asked of each other the same question. The red carpet was rolled up, the band had gone to bed, the tiara was taken off, and the A.D.C.’s were no longer “studies in scarlet and gold,” but were presumably asleep, dreaming of trout streams and England; and Sibyl and her husband sat together—Sibyl with her hair in two long plaits looking absurdly like Diana. Her husband loved her like that. It amused him to see how young she looked. And the dinner? How had it gone off? They did not talk of dinners. They sat for some time saying nothing. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, a breeze blew through the open windows. “What is Diana doing?” asked Sibyl. “No, don’t bother about the difference in time. Supposing it is there what it is here—what is she doing?”
Her father hoped she was in bed.
Diana in bed! Countless memories there—delicious memories. Memories that brought tears to the mother’s eyes—and because of the tears in her eyes, to the father’s eyes too.
“And—Dick?”
Again they were both silent. They were never so silent as when they talked of their children—there was so much to say.
“And Shan’t?”
There was another silence; then Sibyl said: “I wonder if she is in love?”
“I suppose it’s possible at her age.”