“Arthur got home after Alan, only two weeks ago. I’m not used to it yet.”
“Then sit down and make the most of it,” suggested Captain Beattie, who had walked over from his home ten miles away, arriving with a tremendous appetite, and a warm welcome for the travellers.
By way of reply Janet began pouring the tea. Lucy smiled at him but forgot to answer. She had not yet got used to Captain Beattie in civilian’s clothes. For the moment he was almost another person. This jolly, care-free, leisurely young Englishman in his country tweeds was not the prisoner of Château-Plessis, weary, starving and defiant, nor the devoted soldier of the war’s last glorious effort. He was the peace-time Englishman, taking things coolly, with easy calm. His clear eyes guessed Lucy’s thoughts, for he said, smiling at her:
“I’m out of my war stride, Lucy. Quite a tame dog now. I spend my days roaming the woods and finding out what’s become of our place while I was Boche-hunting and Dad was in the War Office. I think we’ve collected enough pheasant for a million bags.”
“That’s what I’ve heard the Britishers looking forward to ever since the armistice,” said Bob. “Going home to shoot. It’s a national mania.”
“You have some of your own,” declared Captain Beattie. “Hello, here’s Eaton.”
Larry came around the house with Alan and Michelle, and swung his cap around his head at sight of Bob and Lucy.
“You’re here at last! How are you? Good-afternoon, Mrs. Leslie. Thank you for asking me. Hello, Beattie—everyone.” He bowed to Arthur and Marian, and caught William Gordon’s hands to pull him from the arm of Lucy’s chair. “The last member of the Gordon family,” he exclaimed, looking down at the little boy, who returned his gaze with bright fearless eyes. “Another credit and I shouldn’t wonder.”
Bob was sitting beside Marian. These two, always unaccountably friends, even in Marian’s invalid days, had renewed their comradeship with great ease after two years’ separation. Something in Marian’s untroubled happy-hearted nature appealed to Bob’s restless soul. Even when she was a little girl he had liked to talk with her, secretly amused to watch her twist the curls of her golden hair about delicate lazy fingers, her fresh, pretty frocks never mussed or soiled at an age when Lucy was torn and dishevelled too often for belief.
For Marian had always had something honest and generous about her, behind her spoiled self-indulgence, something that had made her and Lucy friends from the beginning, in spite of the difference between them. Marian had never been vain of her beauty, and now, with her golden hair tucked up, almost a young lady, with the childish roundness gone from her pretty face, she was unaffected and good-tempered as ever.