Then Mrs. Trupp came down the stairs. About her was the purged and hallowed air of one who faces death without fear and yet without self-deception as to the price that must be paid. The Colonel felt he was standing upon holy ground.
Mrs. Trupp handed him a post-card. The postmark was Dover. It ran:
All well. Very busy.
"I think it'll be all right, don't you?" said Mrs. Trupp, raising wistful eyes to his. The mother in her longed for him to say No: the patriot Yes.
"It must be," replied Bess, ferociously. "If it isn't Joe will chuck the Service. They all will. The pacifists can defend their own rotten country!"
The Colonel moved into the consulting-room, where Mr. Trupp was burrowing short-sightedly into his Sunday paper.
The old surgeon at least had no doubts.
"We shall fight all right," he said comfortably. "We must. And Must's the only man who matters in real life."
The Colonel felt immensely comforted.
"But what a position my poor old party'd have been in now if our leaders hadn't queered the pitch!" he remarked. "We told you so! We told you so! How we could have rubbed it in."