“I can’t think why Cecil doesn’t come. Of course, I thought he’d come to London. I knew he’d want to join the Army—not like those people at Squires, who write as if they were quite astonished at his suggesting such a thing,” said Rose scornfully.
“But he hasn’t written any more to me, and I’m terribly afraid he’s written to them for money, like he did to Uncle Alfred, only that was before the war had started, so it seems like years and years ago.”
She caught her breath in a deep sigh.
“I’d go to him myself, only I swore when he first went to school that I wouldn’t be for ever trailing after him in the maddening way that widowed mothers always do. I expect he’d much rather see you, Maurice.”
“I can get up there to-morrow, if you really want me to go.”
“You’re a brick,” said Rose simply. “Maurice, you’re the only person I know who doesn’t think he knows what one wants better than one does oneself. Most people would have said, ‘Hadn’t you better telegraph to Cecil to come here?’ or ‘Hadn’t you better go yourself?’ or other rot of that kind. They always make everything as difficult as they can, it seems to me.”
“I suppose that by ‘they’ you mean, as usual, Cecil’s relatives.”
“I suppose I do.”
They both laughed.