“She made no answer, but across her lips and in her eyes flickered a curious smile, a smile that was part cunning, part pride, part triumph.
“‘I wonder,’ I continued, ‘if it was a man or a woman. A woman more likely. Constance, perhaps, or Mrs. Berridge, or Marjorie Godwin—Marjorie was once in love with him, so they said, it might have been she.’
“‘I shouldn’t think so!’ And the curious smile deepened, grew more baffling, more evocative, more triumphant.
“Suddenly I had a wave of intuition; our eyes met in the glance of two conspirators who share a secret.
“‘Margaret,’ I said, ‘you wrote that letter.’
“The curious smile became infinitely suggestive. ‘But, my dear,’ she said, ‘of course.’”
XIV
IT must make good drinking, that after-battle wine! We only play football, I sometimes think, for the sake of that hour of indolence and exhaustion, when we lie back in comfort after a hot bath, stiff and tired, to fight the afternoon’s struggle over again. It is good to get our innings over early and sit in the pavilion with a pint pot at the elbow while we watch our successors battle in the sunlight, and if we happen to have made a few, the world is a very companionable spot. It is worth while taking trouble out there in the open if only for that after-sense of security and content. There is no temptation then to grumble and feel jealous of those whose wickets are still intact and whose innings is in front of them. And it is worth our while for the sake of those fifteen years or so, when we shall stand above the battle, to make the most of our youth while it is with us. If we realise ourselves, if we live fully now, we shall be more sociable, more generous, more kindhearted when the arteries begin to thicken. We shall be able to look the younger generation in the face. We shall welcome it as a host should, courteously. If we are wise now, or rather if we make a wisdom of our indifference, we will come to find our last ten years the happiest of all.
There are indeed times when we are inclined to welcome the infirmities and immunities of age.
During the coal strike of 1921 my platoon was protecting the property of the Shell Motor Spirit Company in Newcastle. It was a dismal enough spot, beside the river. There was a long row of miners’ cottages between my billet and the guard-room, and after tea the women would sit upon their doorsteps and talk to one another, while the children played on a strip of grass that ran dingily to the waterside. Beyond a more or less mechanical supervision I had very little work to do, and in the evenings I would stand in the roadway and watch the dusk rise slowly from the river, to soften the harsh outline of chimney stack and factory. I grew lonely and a little wistful as the twilight settled caressingly on the poor houses that the sunlight had made so drab. Evening is always beautiful. And I used to indulge the hour of sentiment with romantic reveries concerning a young and charming girl who would sit evening after evening knitting beside her mother.