"Yes," I said; and all the happiness that the music had brought me ebbed from my heart, and left it cold and dark, like a little cellar when the lamps had been extinguished.
To-morrow at six the battery entrains.
I heard father giving orders for the band to play them off.
He is to go too, of course, but mother seems quite philosophic about it. I wonder if when people grow older they lose that sort of sick, gnawing fear that attacks you when you think of someone you care for very much going into danger.
If you do I hope I grow old very quickly, because at the present moment I feel dreadful.
To-morrow Cheneston goes—and I mustn't show him I care the least little bit. I've got to keep the flag wagging.
I suppose everyone will turn out to see the battery off. I know a lot of the men's wives came over in the old paddle boat last night to say good-bye. Poor souls!—their eyes were red, and some of them had little kiddies in their arms; but they had the right to grieve. I haven't any.
I think having the right to break your heart makes the breaking an easier affair.
I'm sorry about father, but I'm not as sorry as I ought to be. I have always felt uneasy when he was around, like Pomp and Circumstance, his wire-haired fox-terriers, on the alert to move out of the way quickly and hide if necessary.
I don't think he realises the dreadful effect his red-faced shouting has on people—it's like being scolded by a lion.