I write a return telegram—also of reckless and unconscionable length, and reply paid—it is a relief to do so—asking for a place of meeting at Aldershot to be suggested.
I get no answer at all, and on Sunday morning, in despair, I go over to see my aunt and cousin. My aunt is my mother's sister and a sportswoman. She counsels, "Go at all costs." Dorothy will come with me: Dorothy is Donald's best woman pal—she reminds him of his mother. She is all that is wholesome and comportable.
The element of enjoyment comes in, and I go home and pack a nice lunch.
We arrive at Aldershot.
There is no one on the platform to meet us, and we push our way through the turnstile.
There is Donald, on the outskirts of the waiting crowd—a tall, soldierly figure in the uniform of a private—for he has resigned his sergeant's stripes by now.
His face is very boyish—not the face of the photograph at the beginning of this book: that was taken after he had been to France, and had been wounded, and had written "A Passing in June," and "The Honour of the Brigade"—but a much younger face, really boyish.
He glances quickly and anxiously at every face that passes, and each time he is a little more disappointed—but he tries not to show it.
I am not tall and cannot catch his eye. It is like being at a play, watching him! All at once he sees me! Involuntarily a sudden quick spasm of joy passes across his face, absolutely transfiguring it.