“Now, Mrs Waybridge, I think we agreed that that subject was to be treated as—er—a somewhat stale one,” he said deprecatorily.
“I’m sure I never agreed to anything of the sort,” she laughed. “But who would have thought of finding you here in Komgha. Why—what’s the matter with your arm?” becoming alive to the fact that it was in a sling. “You haven’t been in the war, have you?”
“Haven’t I? Had a most ripping time of it too. By Jingo, if it hadn’t been for this confounded scratch, I’d have been in it still. But Blunt turned so solemn over it and ordered me out.”
“Who?”
“Blunt, the F.A.M.P. surgeon.”
“And so you’ve come back wounded. But it’s not serious?”
“No, indeed. It’s a mere scratch. But, what brings you here, Mrs Waybridge, it’s my turn to ask?”
“Why, we live close here; our farm is out towards the Kabousie, only a few miles, and you’ve got to come and stay with us—now—to-day. Where are you staying here?”
“Nominally at Pagel’s, but it’s abominably crowded. Practically I subsist at the Commandant’s, or Chambers’, or at some other good chap’s in the Police. But I’m not stopping on much longer.”
“No, you’re not, for you’re going back with me this afternoon.”