“But I met her first years ago, before we went to Kubbet-ul-Haj. Besides, what does it signify if I had only known her an hour? It is the kind of feeling one can only have for one woman in one’s life.”
“But you didn’t say anything?” asked Georgia anxiously.
Fitz laughed shamefacedly. “No, I have said nothing even yet. The fact is, it seemed sacrilege even to think of it. She is so lovely, so sweet, so far above me in every way! Oh, Mrs North, I could rave about her for hours.”
“And so you shall,” was the cordial but unexpected response, “as often as you like, and I will listen patiently, provided that you still say nothing to her.”
“No, no; things can’t go on in this way. You see, the Commissioner has changed all that. He goes in and fights for his own hand in the most barefaced way, and I must get my innings too. After all, though it sounds horribly low to say it, I did kill the fellow that was carrying her off, and bring her back.”
“Of course you did. If that was all, you certainly deserve to win her.”
“Yes; but then the Commissioner scores in having got hurt. He sees her for ever so long every day, and she is so awfully kind, talking to him and reading to him, and letting him prose away to her, that no wonder he thinks he is making splendid running. I only wish I had got hurt too.”
“Do you really?” asked Georgia, with meaning in her tone.
“No, Mrs North, you’re right; I don’t. If we had both been hurt there would have been no one with the slightest chance of catching up the rascals. Whether she takes him or me in the end, I did save her, at any rate.”
“Good,” said Georgia encouragingly. “I like that spirit.”