“What are you saying about me, mon ami?”
“Only good things, and only half of what you deserve,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. He sat down, exhausted, and leaning over, buried his head in his hands.
“Now, you know what I think, what I shall always think. At that, though I hate it all—your narrowness and priggishness and holier-than-thou attitude—you’ve left your confounded Littledale pride in me. I am one of you, under my skin, or else I’d marry the only human being—” He stopped, looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t worry. I won’t. Give me Molly’s letter.”
When he came to a part that told of my father’s ill health, he frowned and looked up. “That’s why you’ve come round, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“To take me back with you—grand reconciliation—prodigal son—and all that sort of stuff?”
“I had no such thought,” I answered warmly. “As a matter of fact, I am not going myself.”
“You’re not?” He looked at me, too sharply for comfort. “Why not? Easiest thing in the world for you to get leave in your condition.”
“I want to get back to the Legion,” I said, looking away.
He saw there was more than I wished to say and probably he ascribed it to a different reason for, the letter read, his manner changed, and he said: