He had begun to unfasten his horse when a hand was placed upon his arm, and Virginia was smiling on him through her tears.
“If I am not to see you again, I want to thank you once more for what you are doing for us.”
“It is nothing,” he assured her. “Please don't think of it.”
“But I do, I must, perhaps I am very cruel and heartless to allow you to go. If it was dangerous for them, it is equally dangerous for you. Suppose something should happen to you—I should have this to reproach myself with to the end of my days.”
“But nothing will happen to me!” and he laughed confidently, but she regarded him with questioning gravity. It occurred to her that he was very young, and that perhaps she had taken advantage of this quality of youth, and generous enthusiasm. She felt a pang of remorse at the thought.
“Please don't worry about me, Mrs. Landray,” he said. “Or I shall be quite desperate,” but he was too sane to misinterpret her interest; he accepted it at its full value; his vanity added nothing to it. But the next moment she had forgotten him.
“You will not neglect to write?” she repeated anxiously.
He understood the change, and, oddly enough was relieved by it.
“No, Mrs. Landray, you shall hear from me as often as you could wish.”
He held out his hand again.