The portmanteau was brought in and the carriage dismissed. Lunch was laid in the old simple fashion by Homer, with whom Comethup warmly shook hands; and the young man chatted ceaselessly throughout the meal. There were many things about which the captain was curious—things which he had forgotten to mention in his short letters: as to the standing and apparent strength of foreign armies, and their methods of life and discipline. He nodded with supreme satisfaction on being told that some of the foreign soldiers Comethup had seen were very small and insignificant and very youthful.
“That’s as it should be,” replied the old man. “It’s very evident that in these things the foreigner is absolutely incapable of improving himself. He may cook well, and he may know how to swing off his hat and make a bow which is much too elaborate to have anything of sincerity in it, but he can’t breed fighting men; the thing is simply not to be done. I’m glad to hear you bear out the impression I have so long had concerning that matter. Now that one is—well, is not quite so strong as in more lusty years; now that one finds the years creeping on, it is easier to sleep calmly in one’s bed when one knows that foreign legions—taken in the lump—are as you describe them. Oh, we must never forget, as I have before pointed out to you, my dear Comethup, that we lie remarkably near the coast. You remember all the plans we used to make, boy,” he added less seriously, “when you were a little chap?”
“Yes, I remember well. I was a very little chap then.”
“Yes, indeed. And now you tower above me, and your voice is deeper, and your laugh stronger, and—well, I suppose we must expect changes. And yet there’s not much difference in you, Comethup,” he added, looking at him critically. “You’ve the same eyes, the same smile. And I’ll be bound you’ve the same heart. Yet it’s a long time since you used to trot by my side and get under my cloak on wet days.”
They sat for some moments in silence, musing over those old times, and then Comethup said quickly, with a flush on his face: “By the way, sir, I am a selfish brute—I’ve never even asked how ’Linda is. You remember little ’Linda?”
The captain smiled and shook his head. “Little ’Linda no longer,” he said. “The years don’t fly on with you, boy, and stand still for every one else. ’Linda is a woman.”
“She was almost that when I was here before,” replied Comethup. “And does she—does she still live at the old house?”
The captain nodded gravely. “Yes,” he said. “Her father’s dead, you know; I don’t think I’ve mentioned that in writing to you. He was found dead in bed one morning. He was a strange man. I only saw him once—let me see, you were with me, Comethup?”
Comethup remembered the occasion on which he had seen the strong, hard face of Dr. Vernier in the little circle of light among the books and papers. “Yes, the night you carried ’Linda home; I remember it well. But who looks after her now?”
“She lives there, in the care of the woman who has been her governess so long; you remember that the woman came there almost immediately after you found ’Linda in the garden. She seems devoted to the girl. I think ’Linda has a little money, and the house is her own. I expect you’ll see her; she has grown into a very beautiful woman.”