But when dinner was over, when Roy’s wants were satisfied, and when the three were together in the drawing-room, Roy in a comfortable chair, with Molly close to his side, Polly herself remarked quietly,—
“Now Roy will tell us about them all at Verdun.”
“Haven’t seen ’em lately, you know, Polly. I wish I had. The latest news I can give you is nearly a year old. No, not quite the latest, but——Well, I left my father and mother all right at Verdun, last spring. Not much less than a year. Denham had been away at Valenciennes for eighteen months. You must have heard about that.”
“There was a mention in one letter of his being there. A letter from your mother, which had been long on its road. But no explanation. We thought he had perhaps gone thither for a few weeks.”
“Eighteen months. Ordered off for nothing, and brought back in the same fashion. He arrived at Verdun the day before I broke that bust of the Emperor, and got myself into trouble. You know—I told you in the other room. I suppose—” and Roy laughed—“I suppose it was the delight of having him back which made me a trifle crazy.”
“Sounds like Roy!” whispered Molly. “Then you have not seen anything of Denham for an age?” This was what she rightly judged that Polly was longing to have said.
“Pretty near two years and a half—except that one day.”
“And he and they didn’t know you would be coming home. So you have no messages for us?”
“No, of course they didn’t. The best they could hope for was that I might be sent back to Verdun.”
“And they were all quite well?” Polly asked this.