Within himself he doubted whether they would ever meet again. He had secret fears—fears of something that was in progress—something that might entirely change his life—something he held secret from her.
But he put the thought away. It was a horrible reflection—a qualm of conscience. What would she think of him if she actually knew the truth?
He bit his lip, and in resolution again took her white-gloved hand.
“No, darling,” he said, softly, in an earnest effort to cheer her. “I will return very soon. Be brave, and remember that my every thought is of you always—of you, my love.”
“I know,” she sobbed. “I know, Charlie, but—but I cannot really help it. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you! Of course I do, sweetheart; only do not cry, or they will certainly suspect something when you sit down to dinner.”
His argument decided her, and she slowly dried her tears, saying:
“I only wish I could go to Charing Cross to see you off. But an hour ago I telephoned to your sister Marion to come and dine with us, and go with me to a concert at Queen’s hall.”
“And she accepted?” he asked, quickly, almost breathlessly.
Rolfe gave a sigh of relief. At any rate neither his sister nor his well-beloved would be at Charing Cross at nine that evening.