"Only that there is _no_ chance of her, of Eva's coming home," he said. "The doctors won't hear of it. She is to go straight to Algiers from Ireland. And last week, when I left her, there did seem a lightening in the clouds. They won't even allow her to pass through London on her way." "And everything--what you told me about--it is all put off again indefinitely?" "More than indefinitely--most _definitely_, I fear," he said. "Heaven only knows." But here he broke off. "Oh, Rex, I _am_ so sorry for you," said his cousin impulsively. "And you are so unselfish. When I compare myself with you, I do feel so ashamed. Just to think of your bothering yourself with that silly little goose of a child." "Poor little girl!" he said. "Under good influence there is the making of a nice woman in her, I think. I'm sure Eva would have been good to her. Perhaps it's partly that," he went on simply. "If ever I try to-- to do any little thing for others, it seems to bring her nearer me." The tears rose to Florence's eyes--assuredly she was _not_ a thorough-going Helmont. "It is beautiful to feel like that," she said. "I can't altogether pity you and Eva, Rex. The sympathy between you is so perfect; it would be worth living for to feel like that for an hour of one's life." Major Winchester smiled. "Yes," he said, "I do feel it in that way sometimes. And the best of it is, that when you _do_ feel sympathy and union of that kind, you feel that it is independent of circumstances--that it is, so to speak, immortal. Nothing that could happen could altogether shipwreck us." Florence sighed deeply. "I understand," she said; "or, at least, I understand that I don't understand; and there is a certain satisfaction, almost exhilaration, in realising that there are things, good and beautiful things, which one can't understand." Major Winchester smiled again, a kindly but somewhat rallying smile. "Florence," he said, "you are getting on. I'm not a clever man, and I'm not a prophet. All the same, I believe, some day you will say good-bye to scepticism and cynicism, and all the rest of them." "It will be thanks to you and Eva if ever I do," she said softly. Then, with her usual dislike to any approach to sentiment or emotion, she hastened to change the subject. "How is Angey?" she said. "Mamma or somebody spoke as if there had been news of her." "I heard from, or of her, too, this morning," her cousin replied. "Just the old thing, waiting till her eyes are ready for the operation. They are trying to be hopeful. Her husband is very unselfish, I must say; nevertheless, I cannot understand what made her marry him. My letter was from Arthur. He says--" But a sudden sound of voices just behind where they were standing, or walking, made him stop.