The doctor understood why he had been asked whether he meant to go abroad.
“Bad luck!”
“A friend of mine has sworn to get me a job in the War Office, but that isn’t what one wants. The whole thing is a farce—boys like this young rotter of a nephew of mine sent out, and men with experience—fellows who went through the Boer war, like myself—left at home.”
“H’m!”
The sound emitted by the doctor was intended to convey a certain sympathy, but for the life of him he could have found no genial words. Nothing surprised him more than the unexplained tendency that Ford Aviolet had at intervals evinced for years, to expose his soul in short, embittered glimpses to a man by whom he certainly knew himself to be disliked. It threw light, the doctor cynically reflected, on the limitations of Ford Aviolet’s habitual surroundings.
At the post-office, Ford savagely chewed at the end of his silver pencil. Finally he scribbled a message, and handed it silently to the doctor. It was addressed to Lady Aviolet.
“Cecil with us; joining father in London to-day; probably return home to-morrow.”
“I should add two words to that: ‘All well.’”
“I object to clichés,” coldly said Ford. “Nor do I consider that such an expression would be in any way justified by the circumstances.”
Lucian shrugged his shoulders.