Half an hour later, incredibly, they had dinner as though nothing had happened.
Ford had disappeared.
Servants of perfectly incurious aspect had swept up the broken china and glass in the hall.
Diana and Sir Thomas and Lady Aviolet sat in the dining-room where Rose and Cecil were waited upon with all the simplification of ritual that the war had imposed upon the process of dining at Squires.
Diana and Lady Aviolet knitted.
They made spasmodic conversation.
“They say no one is allowed to write and say where they are, over there. I daresay we shall be able to guess, though.”
“Don’t forget your letters will all have to go through the Censor’s office, Cecil.”
“Great nonsense!” from Sir Thomas. “That’ll all stop directly you get your commission, of course.”
“You ought to have a smooth crossing, I should say.”