“Ah!” said Quong Ho, with a very large smile.
Before they parted, on reaching Churton Towers, Marcelle put her hand on Godfrey’s shoulder.
“Perhaps I oughtn’t to have asked you that question in the train—I had no right——”
He interrupted her with his boyish laugh.
“You dear old thing! You have every right to cross-question me on my wicked doings. Haven’t I adopted you as a sort of young mother? Iolanthe. Or the Paphian one which Quong Ho was gassing about. Now, look here. You just come to me in a rosy cloud whenever you like, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Swear it?”
“I swear it.”
He kissed her finger-tips, and she went away half-reassured. But she was sufficiently in the confidence of the Baltazars, father and son, to know that, for both of them, Lady Edna Donnithorpe was but a recent acquaintance. And to her the boy was “Godfrey,” and his presence in London without her knowledge a matter of surprise.
A few days later came the order for Godfrey to be transferred to an orthopædic hospital, where he should learn the new art of walking with an artificial foot. He parted from her with reiterated vows of undying affection. From his Iolanthe mother the secrets of his heart would never be hidden. If she wanted a real good time, she would chuck the nursing—Heaven knew she had done her bit in the war—and come and be a real mother and keep house for him. She smiled through her tears. “Preposterous child!” she called him.
“You seem to forget,” said he, “that you’re the only female thing associated with my family I’ve ever cared a hang about. I’ve adopted you, and don’t you forget it. When I’ve got my foot, I’ll march in like a regimental sergeant-major and take you by the scruff of your Sister’s cap, and off you come.”