“I thought it would be—for a longer time, Tom.”
“You thought it was for good; but you might have known better. The poor old governor thought better of it at the last?”
“I don’t think that he changed—his opinion,” Winifred said, hesitating, afraid to carry on the deception, afraid to undeceive him, tired and excited as he was.
“Well,” said Tom, addressing himself to the good things on the breakfast table, “whatever his opinion was, it don’t matter much now, for here I am, at all events, and that horrible episode of New Zealand over. It didn’t last very long, thank Heaven!”
It was, perhaps, only because the conversation was so difficult that she asked him then suddenly whether, perhaps, on the way he had seen anything of George.
“Of George?” Tom put down his knife and fork and stared at her. “How, in the name of Heaven, could I see anything of George—on my way home?”
“I—don’t know, Tom. I am not clear about the geography. I thought perhaps you might have come by the same ship.”
“By the same ship?” It was only by degrees that he took in what she meant. Then he thrust back his chair from the table and exclaimed, “What! is George coming too?” in a tone full of disgust and dismay.
“I sent for him at the same time,” she replied, in spite of herself, in a tone of apology. “How could I leave him out?”
“You sent for him?” said Tom, with evident relief. “Then I think you did a very silly thing, Winnie. Why should he come here, such an expensive journey, stopping his work and everything? Some one told me he was getting on very well out there.”