A poor welcome for a man who had lived through six months’ hard fighting with brown Buddhist soldiers, for the sake of this moment. But he could not upbraid his betrothed for unkindness just now. Mrs. Dulcimer was there, tearful but loquacious, and he could not open his heart before Mrs. Dulcimer. After breakfast next morning Kenrick asked Beatrix to go for a walk on the platform with him. They were to drive over to Culverhouse Castle in the afternoon. It was a dim autumnal morning, the opposite shore veiled in mist, the water a dull gray, everything placid and subdued in colour--a morning that had the calmness and grayness of advancing age--the dull repose which befits man’s closing years. ‘My dearest love, your letters have been all kindness,’ said Kenrick. ‘There has not been much love in them, but I suppose I have no right to complain of that. You did not promise to love me. Your letters have made me happy. But yesterday I confess I was wounded by your reception of me. You were so cold, so silent. I looked in vain for the greeting I had foreshadowed. It seemed that you had come to meet me as a duty, that you wished yourself away. And then I thought perhaps the change in me was too great, that you were horror-struck at seeing so deplorable a wreck. If this was the cause of your silence----’ ‘It was not,’ cried Beatrix, eagerly. ‘Pray do not imagine anything of the kind. The change in you makes no difference in me. I am proud to think that you have done your duty, that you have been brave and noble, and have won praise and honour. Do you suppose I do not like you better for that?’ ‘If I thought otherwise, Beatrix, if I fancied that you were revolted by my lantern jaws, and this ugly gash across my cheek, I would say at once let all be at an end between us. I would give you back your freedom.’ ‘I could not accept it on such terms. There is nothing revolting in your appearance. If there were, if you were maimed and scarred so as to be hardly recognisable, I would remember that you had been wounded in the performance of your duty, and I would honour your wounds. No, Kenrick, believe me _that_ could not make any barrier between us.’ ‘Yet there is a barrier.’ She had not the cruelty to answer the cold hard truth. He was ill and weak. He looked at her with eyes that seemed to implore any deception rather than a reality that would crush him. He had loved her and believed in her, when the man she loved had doubted and left her. He was at least entitled to gratitude and regard. ‘I have promised to be your wife, and I am going to keep my promise,’ she said, gravely. ‘Then I am happy. Shall it be soon, dearest?’ ‘It shall be when you like after the new year.’ ‘And am I to leave the army?’ ‘No,’ she answered, quickly. ‘I am proud of your profession. I should be very sorry if for my sake you were to exchange the career of a soldier for the stagnation of a country gentleman’s life.’