“Yes,” said Caroline. “But I will have to go now, sure enough.” She turned away and, as she did so, her scissors fell clattering to the floor.
“You dropped your scissors, my dear,” said Mrs. Varney.
“I thought I heard something fall,” she faltered in growing confusion.
She came back for her scissors, and, in her agitation and nervousness, she dropped one of the pieces of trouser leg on the floor.
“What are you making, Caroline?” asked Mrs. Varney, looking curiously at the little huddled-up soiled piece of grey on the carpet, while Caroline made a desperate grab at it.
“Oh, just altering an old—dress, Mrs. Varney. That’s all.”
Mrs. Varney looked at her through her glasses. As she did so, Caroline’s agitated movement caused the other trouser leg, with its half-severed end hanging from it, to dangle over her arm.
“And what is that?” asked Mrs. Varney.
“Oh—that’s—er—one of the sleeves,” answered Caroline desperately, hurrying out in great confusion.
Mrs. Varney laughed softly to herself. As she did so, her glance fell upon the little heap of grey on the table. She picked it up and opened it. It was a grey jacket, a soldier’s jacket. It looked as if it might be about Wilfred’s size. There was a bullet hole in the breast, and there was a dull brown stain around the opening. Mrs. Varney kissed the worn coat. She saw it all now.