“My dear Roy, you have not seen him even—except that one day—since—how long ago?”
“Spring of 1805.”
“And you were then—how old?”
“Yes, I know all that: but boys have eyes, as well as girls. And I tell you, Polly, I know Denham. That year and a half, before he went to Valenciennes, he and I were always together. Lessons and playtime, we were hardly ever apart. And I got to know him, as—well, as nobody else does. No, not you!”
She rested her chin on one hand, the soft eyes questioning Roy.
“Go on,” she whispered.
“I know Den, and because I know him, I can tell you that he has not altered, and that he won’t alter. It wouldn’t be like him; it isn’t in him; he is not that sort. It doesn’t make a grain of difference whether he talked or didn’t talk of you that day. He was too ill—and Den doesn’t ever talk much of the things he cares most about. You ought to know what he feels about Sir John Moore, for instance; and yet how few would ever guess it! Except when he is speaking quietly alone with you, or with Jack or me, does he ever say a great deal about Moore? It isn’t his way! And has he ever changed in that direction? No, nor ever will. If he didn’t see Sir John for twenty years, it would make never a grain of difference.”
“He has a warm advocate in you.”
“Because I know what he is—because he is the best friend I ever had or ever could have. He never did talk much about you, Polly, that year and a half that we were always together. And I was only a boy, but all the same I understood. If anybody ever spoke your name, or anything to do with you came up—didn’t I see his look? Didn’t I know it? Just as I know the look in his face when he hears anything of Sir John Moore.”
Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.