And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joe suddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: “What d’you think of that?”
Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegram form, and turned towards the candle to read it.
“Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S.,” he read, sotto voce. His face took on its fun-and-nonsense look.
“Who’s M.S.?” he asked, looking shrewdly at Joe.
“You know as well as I do,” said Joe, non-committal.
“M.S.,” repeated Albert. “Blamed if I know, boy. Is it a woman?”
The conversation was carried on in tiny voices, for fear of disturbing the householders.
“I don’t know,” said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two men looked straight into each other’s eyes. There was a lurking grin in each of them.
“Well, I’m—blamed!” said Albert at last, throwing the telegram down emphatically on the bed.
“Wha-at?” said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none the less.