"Wine? Nonsense, I'm all right. Desmond gave me a peg."
"Come to a chair, then."
She drew him towards one; but he gently forced her into it, sinking on one knee beside her, with a sigh of satisfaction.
"That's good. I begin to realise that I am actually home!"
"And I begin to realise what a wreck of yourself you are, mon pauvre. Wait till I've tyrannised over you for a month or so! Then we must get long leave."
And taking his head between her hands, she cherished it, smiling into his eyes; the passion of the wife deepened and hallowed by the protective tenderness of the mother. When and how should she tell him? That was the question in her mind. A paralysing shyness, for which she spurned herself, suffused her at the thought; and behind the shyness lurked a great longing to know how he would receive her culminating revelation. But in his present state she dreaded a shock for him,—even a shock of joy. She would wait a little longer for the given moment; and then . . . .
"The hair on your temples has gone quite silver," she lamented, caressing it with light finger-tips. "It is all those terrible mountains; and I hope you've had enough of them now to keep you quiet for a time. But I begin to dread Sir Henry Forsyth. He hasn't got another 'mission' up his sleeve, has he?"
She spoke laughingly, but his eyes were grave; and taking her two hands he prisoned them in his own.
"Quita, my brave lass," he said gently. "After all that has just passed between us, I can tell you no less than the truth, and leave you to give the casting vote. I am afraid the mountains are bound to play a big part in our immediate future, unless you seriously prefer that I should give up all idea of political work in those parts, and stick to the Battery."
"And if I do seriously prefer it?"