“Heaps. You’re fast.” He tinkered with the hands: and so—having arrived at the hearth-rug and the second armchair—sat down.
She gave him a quick little glance of delight. He was making himself comfortable!... He had crossed his hands under his head: was leaning back: was looking at her.... That meant that he was ready to talk.... She leant back in her turn, her book closed over her hand.
“When’s the next leave, Justin?”
“Lord knows!” he laughed. “You ought to have more sense, Laura. That’s the sort of insatiable thing Mother says.”
Laura laughed too, a touch of vexed colour in her cheeks. She did not often trip.
But he continued, always unconscious—
“Isn’t Mother delicious about this war?—this infamous conspiracy of a Europe that ought to know better against my peace and person? You know—I never knew before what claws Mother had. The bloodthirsty things she says! And means too—bless her! Oh, it’s all very well to laugh, Laura! That’s just what Mother complains of. People don’t realize how serious things are. A bullet might hit me!” He chuckled over his joke.
Laura’s laughter was an excellent imitation of the real thing.
He grew sober again.
“I say—I suppose influenza always does pull people down so? She doesn’t look at all fit.”