“And they were still two-deep when you found them?” asked Foster.
“Yes. There must have been perfect discipline from first to last. And his letter——”
The speaker’s voice caught abruptly, as a trailing garment catches in a nail. The ensuing silence remained unbroken till Aughtlone slowly pushed back his chair.
“I vote we go and have a game of pool,” he said quietly.
. . . . .
The hall clock chimed one on a thin scandalised note as the candle-lit procession wended its way bedwards up the wide stair-way. It was one of the Aughtlone traditions that the old house should remain lit by lamps and candles.
Aughtlone led the way, and, as he reached the gallery overlooking the hall, he turned, smiling, and raised his candle above his head as if to light the way better for his guests. They came towards him by ones and twos, Jerome encircling Foster’s neck with his arm and crooning softly to himself, a picture of Falstaffian contentment: Mayhew, with one hand on the balustrade, looking back over his shoulder to address some laughing remark to Longridge at his heels; Brakespear bringing up the rear, grave and thoughtful as was his wont, his thin, handsome face white as ivory against the dark panelling.
“Hi, Podgie!” called Mayhew, “ain’t they goin’ to make you a Major-General in the Air Force, or something? What’s all this talk about amalgamating the R.N.A.S. and R.F.C.?”
The Flying Man reached the landing and disentangled his arm from his companion. “I shall be a Lieutenant-Colonel,” he said. “A Lieutenant-Colonel—me, what’s been in the Navy, man and boy, these fifteen years.” He frowned severely at an armour-clad effigy against the wall. “Amalgamate——”
“Never mind,” said Foster. “Never mind, Podgie, we don’t care. We shall know you couldn’t help being a Lieutenant-Colonel, and that you belonged to the Navy once.”