“If it is your wish that the young man should be turned away, Miss——”
Drake advanced no farther. Somebody from behind put him quietly on one side, with a gentle shove, and walked past him, straight into the room.
Drake was indignant, yet not so indignant as he ought to have been. Some vague influence, which he afterwards declared to have been an instinctive knowledge of the state of the case, withheld him from any show of wrath. The young man came quickly nearer to where the two girls sat. He was of good medium height, with a boyish look; and he wore a rough travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting; while his boots were cut through, his trousers were soiled, his hair was of an odd mottled colour, as if it had once been dark and were turning fair. But—
“You ask to know what I want,” he said in a laughing voice. A pair of large grey eyes were turned full upon them both. “I want—Molly!”
Molly did not shriek, did not even exclaim. It was Polly who cried out in astonishment. Not Molly. Nor did Molly hesitate for one quarter of a second. As she met Roy’s glance, she was in his arms, clinging to him in a voiceless rapture. Neither of the two spoke. Roy stood perfectly still, his head bent low over the faithful little sister, who held him fast in a vehement clutch of joy. Drake came some steps closer, understanding, yet scarcely able to believe what his own sight told him. Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes full of tears.
“I’m not fit to be touched,” Roy said at length, in an odd husky voice. “Don’t, Molly! I shall spoil your nice things. I’ve been on the tramp for days.”
She half loosened him, then returned to the charge, with another passionate clasp; and Polly’s tears now were running down her cheeks. Roy broke into a queer hard sound, not far removed from a sob, though he tried to turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and kissed again the top of Molly’s head. Her face was out of reach, buried in his rough coat. Then Polly pulled one of Molly’s hands, trying to wrench asunder that frantic hold.
“Dear Molly, you must not. Roy must be tired and hungry. Try to think of that. He wants food. And he has not said one word to me yet.” Polly dashed aside her tears, trying to smile. “How did you get away from Verdun, Roy?”
“Not Verdun. Didn’t you know I’d been sent to Bitche last spring?”
“No. Were you really? O we hear so little!”—and a sigh came from Polly’s heart, while Molly, having pulled Roy into a chair, knelt by his side, gazing with eyes of rapt delight in his face.