The boy’s bewildered eyes stared piteously, first at his mother and then at Lucian.
“I’m so cold,” he stammered. “Can’t we go where there’s a fire?”
“I told you so,” Rose flashed at the doctor.
“Cecil,” said the doctor, “will you come and meet your grandfather at once? It’ll be over then, and I don’t fancy it will be very bad. He wants to settle with you what had better be done next.”
Very unexpectedly, Cecil suddenly rallied.
“I’m going to the recruiting office to-morrow,” he suddenly said.
Rose whitened.
At the same moment they saw Ford’s tall figure making its way towards them through the groups of people and the hurrying porters on the platform. His lean, brown face was pinched with cold and drawn with vexation. He was speaking in short, clipped sentences to an argumentative station official at his side.
It was almost incredible that the tiny incident of the mislaid portmanteau should so immensely add to the wretchedness of them all.
To Ford, it was quite evidently the last and culminating exasperation, destroying his habitual control of manner and temper.