"Then, if that's all, why do you send the telegram?" Sylvia asked.
"I really don't know—probably because I've joined in the May-pole dance for ribbons with the rest of the departmental warriors. Card indexes are the casualty lists of officers commanding embusqués; the longer the list of names the longer the row of ribbons."
"You've become very bitter," Sylvia said. "It's like a sudden change of wind. I feel quite chilled."
"Well, you shall warm yourself by taking down a few hundred groups. Come along."
Sylvia listened for an hour to the endless groups of five figures that Hazlewood dictated to her, during which time his voice that began calmly and murmurously reached a level of rasping and lacerating boredom before he had done.
"Thank Heaven that's over and we can go to bed," he said.
He seemed to be anxious to be rid of her, and she went away in some disconsolation at his abrupt change of manner. Nothing that she could think of occurred to cause it, and ultimately she could only ascribe it to nerves.
"And, after all, why not nerves?" she said to herself. "Who will ever again be able to blame people for having nerves?"
The next morning a note came from Hazlewood apologizing for his rudeness and thanking her for her help.
I was in a vile humor [he wrote], because when I got back to my room I found a refusal to let me leave Nish and join the Serbian Headquarters on the eastern frontier. This morning they've changed their minds and I'm off at once. Keep the room, if you insist upon staying in Nish. If Miss Potberry by any unlucky chance turns up, say I've been killed and that she had better report in Salonika as soon as possible. If I see Michael Fane, which is very unlikely, I'll tell him you want to see him.