In 1882 Mohammed had declared himself that Saviour, and had won his
first battles against the Turks.
"There will be trouble," said Trench, and the sentence was the text on
which three of the four men talked. In a rare interval, however, the
fourth, Harry Feversham, spoke upon a different subject.
"I am very glad you were all able to dine with me to-night. I
telegraphed to Castleton as well, an officer of ours," he explained to
Durrance, "but he was dining with a big man in the War Office, and
leaves for Scotland afterwards, so that he could not come. I have news
of a sort."
The three men leaned forward, their minds still full of the dominant
subject. But it was not about the prospect of war that Harry Feversham
had news to speak.
"I only reached London this morning from Dublin," he said with a shade
of embarrassment. "I have been some weeks in Dublin."
Durrance lifted his eyes from the tablecloth and looked quietly at his
friend.
"Yes?" he asked steadily.
"I have come back engaged to be married."
Durrance lifted his glass to his lips.
"Well, here's luck to you, Harry," he said, and that was all. The wish,
indeed, was almost curtly expressed, but there was nothing wanting in it
to Feversham's ears.
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