"It wasn't that," he contradicted. "I got a relative of mine to call at London Street to inquire about you. There the answer was that you had gone, and my relation assumed it meant you had kicked the bucket."
I remembered then about the letter. "The news must have come as a relief to you," I said, coldly.
"Mary Weston, explain yourself."
"It isn't me that needs any explaining. It's somebody else, who'll find a bit of a difficulty in that respect. No doubt a soldier imagines it a great lark to carry on with three or four girls, and correspond with them; it's only when he gets a bit careless over envelopes—"
The Quartermaster-Sergeant looked serious. "Pride of Greenwich," he said, appealingly, "and Queen of Kent, I ask you, as a personal favour not to talk about that bloomer to anyone else but me. If it once reached Seaford, there's active minds there that would give it a touch of exaggeration, and the story would last for three years, or the duration of the war. Be a chum, and keep it to yourself." He held my arm; I shook him away.
"Out of mere curiosity," I said, "and for no other reason, I'd rather like to know what view your friend Lily took of the situation."
"Got frightfully excited about it."
"Don't blame her."
"Took a journey across country, at once, with the idea of finding you, and bringing you your letter."
"If I'd known where she lived, I'd have discovered her," I assured him. "And the conversation that would have taken place might have made your ear tingle."