“I’m afraid the situation can hardly be dealt with so off-handedly, Rose,” said her brother-in-law. “The present relief is enormous, I grant you, but we still have to consider the future. I’ve no doubt my father will wish to meet us in London and discuss what is to be done next.”
Rose was neither hearing nor heeding. Her eyes were fixed on Cecil, advancing towards them.
The boy’s face was white and blind, horrible to see.
Lucian took his hand and wrung it.
“It’s over now, Cecil. There’s a car waiting. Take your mother to the hotel, and I order you, as your medical adviser, to have a stiff drink directly you arrive there. Rose, you’ll see he carries that out. We’ll meet at the station in time for the two o’clock train to town.”
Rose nodded.
She and Cecil went away together.
Ford Aviolet, who had viewed Maurice Lucian’s initiative with his habitual faint air of supercilious detachment, seemed nevertheless to be waiting, indifferently rather than of conscious volition, for the doctor’s next move.
“Are you going to find a telegraph office?” said Lucian abruptly.
“I suppose so. If you’ve nothing else to do, perhaps you’ll come my way. Between us, we may think of some pretty way of wording the pleasing intelligence that my nephew has escaped the three months’ imprisonment that he so richly deserves, and is to be hustled into the uniform of a private soldier. No doubt the news will be extremely gratifying to the local postal authorities at home.”