“She’s nineteen.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.”
“I sometimes hope she will marry—”
“He’s not good enough.”
“You don’t know who I was going to say?”
“It makes no difference,” said Diana’s father.
And one of the aides-de-camp asked of himself the same question. “Is she in love?” and he was properly and horribly and happily miserable.
Before he got into bed he took from his despatch-case a photograph (he had stolen it, by the way) and put it on the table beside his bed. “Good-night, you darling,” he whispered; “you’ll wait till you’ve seen me, won’t you? I mean—you’ll give me a chance before you fall in love?” And he fell asleep, thinking, and he slept, dreaming, of Diana. And Diana hardly knew of his existence—never dreamed that the prayers of an A.D.C. committed her every night to God’s safe keeping, until he should be able to keep guard over her himself.
Her mother had mentioned once or twice that Captain Hastings was fond of weeding.