Lady Aviolet rested in this comfortable conviction.
Diana was less at ease, feeling daily the deepening nervous strain beneath which Ford lived.
When a letter came from Cecil, announcing his intention of at once applying for a commission, Sir Thomas loudly proclaimed the fact, looking Ford in the face fairly and squarely as he spoke. Sir Thomas was much more capable than was Lady Aviolet, of thinking Ford and his criticisms something less than infallible.
“Shall I write to Cecil, Father?”
“No thank ’ee. I’ll write myself. He’s shown a very proper spirit,” said Sir Thomas, “and he’s wanted out there. I shall be proud to let him go.”
Sir Thomas had never before spoken with so much cordiality of his grandson.
“Ford may say what he pleases,” he remarked later to his wife, “but that was a very good letter young Cecil wrote me. He may have his faults, but I must say I like a boy of his age to show the right spirit.”
“He’s very young, Thomas.”
“He’ll mend of that in a month or two, as I said to Ford.”
“Oh, I hope it may be all over before then. It can’t last long.”