“No, not for me. Nothing for me! How can I tell now—so long as it is since any letter came? And no message—none at all—in the last that did come. Do you not see?” “You mean——But, Polly, you do not think Denham has changed towards you! O sure he cannot have done so.” “I cannot tell. It may be. I am a woman, dear, and I may not be sure, without reason. In my heart, I think I do trust him. And if Roy tells—but you must not ask for me.” “Not even how Denham is?” “Yes—that, for yourself. But nothing for me.” A very different Roy soon appeared, dressed in a cast-off suit of Mr. Bryce’s, which, though by no means a perfect fit, since Roy was very markedly the taller, yet shone by comparison with what he had worn before. Roy had grown brown during his prolonged wanderings; and the dye, which it had been thought advisable to keep going so long as he remained on French soil, was still _en evidence_. But the face and the grey eyes were quite unmistakable. They had been unmistakable to Molly from the earliest moment. An abundant dinner, hastily heated and brought together, awaited him soon in the dining-room; and Roy confessed to a “wolfish” appetite. Molly said nothing then in allusion to Ivor. She knew that Polly would wish the subject to be avoided while Drake was present; and Drake took care to be present throughout the meal, that he might not lose a word of Roy’s narration of his escape from Bitche and his journey through France. That any Frenchman should have acted as Jean had acted, came as a positive shock to the insular prejudices of the old butler. Drake arrived at a solemn conclusion, as he listened, that some among those Mounseers over the water were not perhaps altogether bad, even though they lacked the advantages of an English “eddication.” But when dinner was over, when Roy’s wants were satisfied, and when the three were together in the drawing-room, Roy in a comfortable chair, with Molly close to his side, Polly herself remarked quietly,— “Now Roy will tell us about them all at Verdun.” “Haven’t seen ’em lately, you know, Polly. I wish I had. The latest news I can give you is nearly a year old. No, not quite the latest, but——Well, I left my father and mother all right at Verdun, last spring. Not much less than a year. Denham had been away at Valenciennes for eighteen months. You must have heard about that.” “There was a mention in one letter of his being there. A letter from your mother, which had been long on its road. But no explanation. We thought he had perhaps gone thither for a few weeks.” “Eighteen months. Ordered off for nothing, and brought back in the same fashion. He arrived at Verdun the day before I broke that bust of the Emperor, and got myself into trouble. You know—I told you in the other room. I suppose—” and Roy laughed—“I suppose it was the delight of having him back which made me a trifle crazy.”