That was to marry him quickly just before the end of his leave, and go out to India with him.

He wrote to her every day, and his last letter was in the little silk bag now hanging on her arm.
It was the kind of love-letter that Enid understood, and enjoyed receiving: full of ardent, if rather commonplace, expressions, and of comparisons, very pleasant to her vanity, between her pretty self and the stupid, ugly women he said he was now meeting.

He had been with his people in Cornwall--but for that he would of course have come down to see how she was getting on.

In this particular letter he announced that he was going to be in London very soon, and might he run down for a day?
He had added a question, chaffingly worded, and yet, as she well knew, seriously intended.

Did she think it would be improper for him to come and spend two or three days with her?
And now she told herself, very decidedly, that of course she couldn't have him here--in stupid, old-fashioned Beechfield.