"No. The Gloucesters."
"Oh. The Gloucesters." Her eyebrow indicated that she had momentarily scanned the army-list and found no such name. "How interesting. Richard, or dear Ricky as we call him, is one of our new breed of chivalry: our heroic and fearless knights of the air. Don't you think so, Jennifer?"
"Grandmother, he'd pass out if he heard you talk like that!"
But grandmother's contralto was now warming up with platform eloquence.
"You might give him, I think, some small present of arms. This fine old English blade," exclaimed Lady Brayle, picking up a Turkish scimitar of about 1885, and waving it in the air, "would surely be suitable. I am informed that the air-force seldom carry swords. But the spirit of it! You agree, Jennifer?"
"Yes, grandmother. But…"
"You agree, Captain Drake?"
Martin swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. This calm and indomitable old lady was trying to get his goat He longed to take one dig at her, just one. But he feared its effect on Jenny. Just how much influence this doubtless-benevolent Gorgon exercised over Jenny, who three years ago had given her age as twenty-two, he could not yet estimate.
"Quite," he agreed.
"It is no use, Captain Drake," she smiled at him. "It really is no use." "I beg your pardon?"