He spoke as though reluctantly. “Well, having had some opportunity of observing the General, I pin my faith to his madness, which has more method than the sound mind of most men. I believe he will succeed—not without loss, of course; precious heavy loss, perhaps.”
But Eveleen paid no heed to the qualification. Quite unexpectedly, for he was standing looking meditatively at the floor, with his arms full of clothes—his servant having discreetly faded away,—Richard found her head on his shoulder, and heard her coaxing voice in his ear—
“Ah, then, Ambrose, let me come too!”
“Let you come? Nonsense! certainly not.”
“Ah, now, do!”
“I tell you I won’t hear of it. Am I dreaming, or are you? or is the General’s madness infectious?”
“Why would you be so unkind? Just think how nice, when you come tired to your tent after a march, to find your wife waiting to welcome you, and your slippers warming—no, I suppose it ought be cooling—eh?”
“In my bath, I suppose—if there was one, or any slippers either. My dear, don’t be silly. Do you know that we take no baggage with us after the first day or two? You have no conception of the misery—the squalor—of an ordinary desert campaign, and this will be far worse.”
“What horrid words you use!” complained Eveleen softly, stroking his shoulder-strap. “Didn’t you hear Sir Harry himself telling how Lady Cinnamond was with Sir Arthur at Salamanca, and even rode in the charge?”
“That was Sir Arthur’s business, not mine. If I had been the Duke, I would have cashiered him for allowing it. But perhaps the unfortunate wretch was sufficiently punished by the anxiety he must have been in—to say nothing of looking such a fool. And in any case, war in Europe ain’t like war here. That’s a gentlemanly affair to this. You stay at home and mind your house.”