“And when do you start?”
“As soon as I can wind up here. Say in a fortnight’s time.” She shook her head and looked at the floor, making little hopeless gestures with her fingers. “You see, my dear,” said he, “except my own personal ambitions, which I have scrapped for the time, there’s nothing very much to keep me here. I’ve done my duty by Quong Ho. He’s on the road to fame at Cambridge. Godfrey’s settled in France till the end of the war. And you—well, my dear,” he smiled, “we won’t lose touch with each other for another twenty years.”
“No, of course not,” she said in a queer voice. “We’ll—we’ll write to each other.” She raised her eyes to his timidly. “Won’t you be rather lonely out there, without us?”
He turned swiftly aside so that she should not see his face. “Naturally I’ll miss you. Miss the three of you. I’m human. But, on the other hand, I’m used to being alone. I’m a solitary by temperament.” Then he flashed round on her. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll have my hands too full to be lonely. I’ll have a real man’s job to get through.”
In his vehement way he sketched the kind of work that lay before him, went off into picturesque reminiscence, unfolded some of the plans he had already made for the conquest of those in power in disaffected districts. Anyone but Marcelle he would have convinced of the whole-hearted and enthusiastic anticipation of his mission. But a woman whom a man loves is apt to know him even better than the woman who loves him. A suspicion, vague but insistent, began to haunt her. Presently she gave words to it.
“Have Godfrey’s affairs anything to do with this sudden decision of yours?”
He assumed a puzzled look. “Godfrey’s affairs?”
“Yes. The Donnithorpe business.”
He laughed. “My dear, we’re dealing in high international politics. What on earth can a boy’s calf love have to do with it?”
“You’ve never told me what happened at Waterloo. Nor did Godfrey.”