For the letter said exactly and perfectly just all those things which he most wished to hear, in the manner in which he wished to hear them.  It laughed at him gently and kindly; it called him an extraordinarily silly boy; it said that his leaving Cambridge, and, above all, his manner of leaving it—­Frank had added a postscript describing his adventure with the saddle and the policeman—­were precisely what the writer would have expected of him; it made delightful and humorous reflections upon the need of Frank’s turning over a new leaf—­there was quite a page of good advice; and finally it gave him a charming description—­just not over the line of due respect—­of his father’s manner of receiving the news, with extracts from some of the choicest remarks made upon that notable occasion.  It occupied four closely-written pages, and if there were, running underneath it all, just the faintest taint of strain and anxiety, loyally concealed—­well—­that made the letter no less pleasant.

I have not said a great deal about what Jenny meant to Frank, just because he said so very little about her himself.  She was, in fact, almost the only element in his variegated life upon which he had not been in the habit of pouring out torrential comments and reflections.  His father and Archie were not at all spared in his conversation with his most intimate friends; in fact, he had been known, more than once, in a very select circle at Cambridge, to have conducted imaginary dialogues between those two on himself as their subject, and he could imitate with remarkable fidelity his Cousin Dick over a billiard-table.  But he practically never mentioned Jenny; he had not even a photograph of her on his mantelpiece.  And it very soon became known among his friends, when the news of his engagement leaked out through Jack, that it was not to be spoken of in his presence.  He had preserved the same reticence, it may be remembered, about his religion.

And so Frank at last fell asleep on a little iron bedstead, just remembering that it was quite possible he might have another letter from her to-morrow, if Jack had performed his commission immediately.  But he hardly expected to hear till Tuesday.

* * * * *

Gertie was up soon after five next morning to get breakfast for her men, since the Major had announced that he would go with Frank to see whether possibly there might not be a job for him too; and as soon as they had gone, very properly went to sleep again on the bed in the sitting-room.

Gertie had a strenuous time of it, in spite of the Major’s frequently expressed opinion that women had no idea what work was.  For, first, there was the almost unending labor of providing food and cooking it as well as possible; there was almost a standing engagement of mending and washing clothes; there were numerous arguments to be conducted, on terms of comparative equality, if possible, with landladies or farmers’ wives—­Gertie always wore a brass wedding-ring and showed it sometimes a little ostentatiously; and, finally, when the company was on the march, it was only fair that she should carry the heavier half of the luggage, in order to compensate for her life of luxury and ease at other times.  Gertie, then, was usually dog-tired, and slept whenever she could get a chance.