'Thanks,' said the other briefly.
So I left them, and when I returned later with hot milk and biscuits, they were both smoking, each man in his bed, prepared to help the other 'stick it out.' I wondered as I made up the fire and filled their 'baccy pouches for them whether they would swear, or be courteous, during the long hours, and prayed that they might both get some sleep before the morning.
In the night I woke at four o'clock, so I went in to see the invalids. But the dear things were both asleep. He had been 'compassionate' to them instead!
Now, when I wake up at four o'clock there always is a row before the day is out, and to-day was no exception to the rule.
There were three letters by the first post. One from Michael saying that he would buy the cottage, one from Charlie explaining rather bitterly that he supposed he hadn't enough grandfathers, or that the cement was too hard for her to swallow, but anyway Monica had refused him; and one from the lady in question to the effect that 'Charlie didn't seem to mind much.'
I lost my temper then. What a fool Monica is! As usual, I didn't stop to think, but rushed straight up to London and told her so. I interviewed her in the boot cupboard at the hospital.
'You're a fool, Monica,' I said; 'you can't, even at your age, see farther than your nose. You've been so wrapped up all your life in family trees that you've never even seen the flower of Charlie's love.' (I got muddled up with Mr Williams's song. I felt somehow that Monica ought to be willing to lay snow-white flowers against Charlie's hair, and that she wasn't.) 'You've looked up so many pedigrees that you've never noticed his devotion all these years. What's cement when he's got everything else that matters. You've mistaken everything about him. Not mind? Why, he worships the ground you walk on, and I suppose presently you'll be sorry and think you do like him after all. You never could make up your mind in time. Never could decide whether you wanted your new dress to be pink or blue, and when your mother spoilt you and gave you both you wished you had chosen shot, and when she gave you that, too, you wished it had been mauve.' (I was too angry and agitated to notice that a dress shot pink and blue would have been mauve.) 'I'm absolutely sick of you. You've played with Charlie. You've let him care for you all these years and never let him speak, and when he does you refuse him. I'm tired of you,' I said. 'I'm done with you. You're too'—(I hesitated here and cast my mind round wildly for a word. I seemed to see my whole vocabulary, printed in columns like a spelling book, down which I ran a mental finger, rejecting them all until I came to 'patrician,' so I said)—'You're too patrician for me,' and I flung out of the boot cupboard.
Having quarrelled with my best friend and made her 'quick all bluggy,' I bolted into a post office and sent a frantic wire to 'Uncle John' to meet me at five o'clock at the cottage to talk about repairs. After that I did a heap of shopping, whirled into a registry office and put my name down for a cook, and was rude to the lady who ran the office because she seemed to imagine I must be dotty to think she could get me one at all, though she took my booking fee all right. Then I got in a panic and wondered whether I really did like the cottage now that it was finally decided, so I rushed home and routed Ross out to walk over to it and help me to make up my mind—like Monica.
The winter sun was setting as we walked up the red brick path, mellowing and beautifying the old place and filling the rooms with soft rose light. I felt quite sure I liked it.
'Uncle John' turned up at five o'clock as requested.