"Would it be to-day?" wondered Betty for about the thousandth time in the last eight days. She stared out across the little garden, the broad stretch of pasture beyond the dusty road that ended in a confused fringe of trees bordering the blue waters of the Firth. A flotilla of Destroyers that had been lying at anchor overnight had slipped from their buoys and were slowly circling towards the distant entrance to the harbour. Beyond the Firth the hills rose again, vividly green and crowned with trees.
A thrush in the unseen kitchen garden round a corner of the cottage rehearsed a few bars of his spring song.
"It might be to-day," he sang. "It might, it might, it might—or it mightn't!" He stopped abruptly.
Eight days had passed somehow since an enigmatic telegram from the India-rubber Man had brought Betty flying up to Scotland with hastily packed trunks and a singing heart.
Somehow she had expected him to meet her at the little station she reached about noon after an all-night journey of incredible discomforts. But no India-rubber Man had been there to welcome her; instead a pretty girl with hair of a rusty gold, a year or two her senior, had come forward rather shyly and greeted her.
"Are you Mrs. Standish?" she asked, smiling.
Despite the six-months-old wedding ring on her hand, Betty experienced a faint jolt of surprise at hearing herself thus addressed.
"Yes," she said, and glanced half-expectantly up and down the platform.
"I hoped my husband would be here …"
The stranger shook her head. "I'm afraid his squadron hasn't come in
yet," she said, and added reassuringly, "But it won't be long now.
Your sister wrote and told me you were coming up. My name's Etta
Clavering…."
"Oh, thank you," said Betty. "You got me rooms, didn't you—and I'm so grateful to you."