"Weeks ago. Before he came back off leave."
"I had no letter. Must have been mislaid while I was ill. What's up?
Has he got a command?"
"Yes. And better than that. He is going to be married."
"By Jove! That's first-rate. Good old Dick! But what was it he said to you?"
"I'll show you the letter. Such a charming one. He began, 'Dear Friend,' which wasn't like him. It puzzled me. And he ended by saying he felt sure I should be glad to know how much of his present happiness he owed to his intimacy with me. So you see, dearest, I did no irretrievable harm."
"No, mercifully not, thanks to Dick's uprightness, and his happy temperament. But he might have been quite another sort; like myself, for instance. By the time I had known you two weeks, Quita, the damage was permanent. Even if there had been no word of love between us, I should never have given a thought to another woman—after that."
The quietness of his tone carried conviction, and her arms went out to him.
"Bless you, bless you, my own man," she murmured into the lapel of his coat. "I can never thank God enough that I came out to India and won you back."
Weak as he still was from the pain and prostration of his terrible illness, the exquisite completeness of her surrender almost unmanned him; and she felt him tremble through all his big frame. That roused the mother in her.
"Darling, how thoughtless of me! You are not strong enough yet for this sort of thing. Let me get you some wine—please."